No pathways over hazel-tufted downs,
I might not, when the day begins, be sad
Because I toil among the money-mad.
If out beyond the distant hill there lay
No valley graced by any winding stream,
And if no slim, white steeples far away
Might mark the spots where drowsy hamlets dream,
I could, perhaps, at midday be content
Where striving millions at their tasks are bent.
If far away from noise and strife and care