The Wayside

There are some quiet ways— Ay, not a few— Where the affections grow, And noble days Distil a gentle praise That, as cool dew, Or aromatic gums Within a bower, In after-times becomes A calm, perennial dower. There wayside bush and briar! These lend a grace, Flashing a glad assent To sweet desire. All their interior choir The woodlands place At service to command; Man need not know, In such a favored land, The ways that proud folk go. Perhaps the day may be, Dear heart of mine, When riches press too near Outside, and we, To live unfettered, flee The great and fine, And hide our little home In some deep grove, Where they alone may come Who only come for love.

Collection: 
English
James Herbert Morse

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