| |
| BY copse and hedgerow, waste and wall, | |
| He thrusts his cushions red; | |
| O’er burdock rank, o’er thistles tall, | |
| He rears his hardy head: | |
| Within, without, the strong leaves press, | 5 |
| He screens the mossy stone, | |
| Lord of a narrow wilderness, | |
| Self-centred and alone. | |
| |
| He numbers no observant friends, | |
| He soothes no childish woes, | 10 |
| Yet nature nurtures him, and tends | |
| As duly as the rose; | |
| He drinks the blessed dew of heaven, | |
| The wind is in his ears, | |
| To guard his growth the planets seven | 15 |
| Swing in their airy spheres. | |
| |
| The spirits of the fields and woods | |
| Throb in is sturdy veins: | |
| He drinks the secret, stealing floods, | |
| And swills the volleying rains: | 20 |
| And when the birds’ note showers and breaks | |
| The wood’s green heart within, | |
| He stirs his plumy brow and wakes | |
| To draw the sunlight in. | |
| |
| Mute sheep that pull the grasses soft | 25 |
| Crop close and pass him by, | |
| Until he stands alone, aloft, | |
| In surly majesty. | |
| No fly so keen, no bee so bold, | |
| To pierce that knotted zone, | 30 |
| He frowns as though he guarded gold, | |
| And yet he garners none. | |
| |
| And so when autumn winds blow late, | |
| And whirl the chilly wave, | |
| He bows before the common fate, | 35 |
| And drops beside his grave. | |
| None ever owed him thanks or said | |
| “A gift of gracious heaven.” | |
| Down in the mire he droops his head; | |
| Forgotten, not forgiven. | 40 |
| |
| Smile on, brave weed! let none inquire | |
| What made or bade thee rise: | |
| Toss thy tough fingers high and higher | |
| To flout the drenching skies. | |
| Let others toil for others’ good, | 45 |
| And miss or mar their own; | |
| Thou hast brave health, and fortitude | |
| To live and die alone! | |
| |
