NOW how could I, with gold to spare, Who know the harlot's arms, and wine, Sit in this green field all alone, If Nature was not truly mine? That Pleasure life wakes stale at morn, From heavy sleep that no rest brings: This life of quiet joy wakes fresh, And claps its wings at morn, and sings. So here sit I, alone till noon, In one long dream of quiet bliss; I hear the lark and share his joy, With no more wine-drops than were his. Such, Nature, is thy charm and power -- Since I have made the Muse my wife -- To keep me from the harlot's arms, And save me from a drunkard's life. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOW CLOSE THE WINDOWS by ROBERT FROST HOW TO GET ON IN SOCIETY by JOHN BETJEMAN I LOVE ALL BEAUTEOUS THINGS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE PLOUGHER [OR PLOWER] by PADRAIC COLUM MY YOUTH by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES A VALEDICTION: OF WEEPING by JOHN DONNE THE SCARE-FIRE by ROBERT HERRICK |