All winter long I've heard the song Of industry and thrift, Where men must work nor any shirk And none can dream or drift— O, wrangling hoard! For bed and board You barter life away; But I will go a wandering Where Spring her wealth is squandering, Down Weigand Way. Pink, waxy hearts, like little sparks Of love are in the wood; The birches nod their heads to God As pious Druids should; O, violets gold! Your wealth, untold, Is mine to throw away; So I am going a Maying Where white birch trees are swaying, Down Weigand Way. The meadows green, with velvet sheen Strew gems of heaven's hue Around my feet, and fragrance sweet Of grasses, dipt in dew, With plum buds vie, and none can buy Such perfume as in May, Gay, careless Spring is scattering, The distilled drops soft pattering On Weigand Way. Full well I know the rainbow glow Of wee anemones Upon the hills, and near the rills, While clouds of noisy bees— Deluded things, with angry stings— Their frenzied zeal display; I will not work, but wander, And all my hours squander Down Weigand Way. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LAMENT by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THOMAS HOOD by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE BRITISH PHILIPPIC by MARK AKENSIDE DESTINY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH OLD SAUGATUCK MILL by GRACE JEWETT AUSTIN THE MYSTIC by PHILIP JAMES BAILEY |