There is joy in the woods just now, The leaves are whispers of song, And the birds make mirth on the bough And music the whole day long, And God! to dwell in the town In these springlike summer days, On my brow an unfading frown And hate in my heart always- A machine out of gear, aye, tired, Yet forced to go on-for I'm hired. Just forced to go on through fear, For every day I must eat And find ugly clothes to wear, And bad shoes to hurt my feet And a shelter for work-drugged sleep! A mere drudge! but what can one do? A man that's a man cannot weep! Suicide? A quitter? Oh, no! But a slave should never grow tired, Whom the masters have kindly hired. But oh! for the woods, the flowers Of natural, sweet perfume, The heartening, summer showers And the smiling shrubs in bloom, Dust-free, dew-tinted at morn, The fresh and life-giving air, The billowing waves of corn And the birds' notes rich and clear:- For a man-machine toil-tired May crave beauty too-though he's hired. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN EPITAPH, INTENDED FOR HIMSELF by JAMES BEATTIE THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER TWILIGHT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW AT MIDSUMMER by LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON A JAPANESE FAN by MARGARET VELEY ON LYNN TERRACE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH VERITAS by BERNICE BROWN BETTMAN |