I know no home or shelter,
No bed but good green grass,
Nor any friends but hedgerows
To greet me as I pass.
But though the road still calls me
To places wild and steep,
I find the going heavy;
My eyes are full of sleep.
The fields lie all about me;
The trees are gay with sap—
As I go weary, weary
To my great mother’s lap,
To rest me with my mother,
The kindly earth so brown.
And Lord! But well contented
I’ll lay my carcase down.
THE WORLD’S MISER
I
A MISER with an eager face
Sees that each roseleaf is in place.
He keeps beneath strong bolts and bars
The piercing beauty of the stars.
The colours of the dying day
He hoards as treasure—well He may!—