To eat the dust and drink the roaring wind?
And all for what? A handful of bright sand
To buy a shroud with and a length of earth?
Oh, saner are the hearts on stiller ways!
Thrice happier they who, far from these wild hours,
Grow softly as the apples on a bough.
Wiser the plowman with his scudding blade,
Turning a straight fresh furrow down a field—
Wiser the herdsman whistling to his heart,
In the long shadows at the break of day—