IT is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air, Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white; Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY MOTHER LEFT ME by KAREN SWENSON THE BARTHOLDI STATUE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER PRINCETON by LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN EACH FLEETING DAY by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN BYROAD by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE POET AND THE FLY: 1 by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY HIS MOTHER'S JOY by JOHN WHITE CHADWICK |