HE would have holiday -- outworn, in sooth, Would turn again to seek the old release, -- The open fields -- the loved haunts of his youth -- The woods, the waters, and the paths of peace. The rest -- the recreation he would choose Be his abidingly! Long has he served And greatly -- ay, and greatly let us use Our grief, and yield him nobly as deserved. Perchance -- with subtler senses than our own And love exceeding ours -- he listens thus To ever nearer, clearer pipings blown From out the lost lands of Theocritus. Or haply, he is beckoned from us here, By night or yeoman of the bosky wood, Or, chained in roses, haled a prisoner Before the blithe Immortal, Robin Hood. Or, mayhap, Chaucer signals, and with him And his rare fellows he goes pilgriming; Or Walton signs him, o'er the morning brim Of misty waters midst the dales of Spring. Ho! wheresoe'er he goes, or whosoe'er He fares with, he has bravely earned the boon. Be his the open, and the glory there Of April-buds, May-blooms and flowers of June! Be his the glittering dawn, the twinkling dew, The breathless pool or gush of laughing streams -- Be his the triumph of the coming true Of all his loveliest dreams! |