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.