On the ruthless rush of the wondrous world,
And none has leisure to lie and cull
The blossoms, that made life beautiful
In that old season when men could sing
For dear delight in the risen Spring
And Summer ripening fruit and flower.
Now carefulness cankers every hour;
We are too weary and sad to sing;
Our pastime’s poisoned with thought-taking.
John Payne (Tournesol).