Even a fool can tell you that a week Has seven days, or that a dove has wings; That there are silks, and trees, and wharves, and kings; That life is iron-hard; that one may seek, And yet go empty. Even he may know. By these we barter spires or a gilt cup, Or patch a road, or pluck a flower up. I flout them with my dreams that do not so. For what I have, I hold not in my hand; For what I save, piles higher than a town; And for one thing I spend, I gather four; A roof, a field are mine in every land. Let a world rot, or a rose crumble down; The dream of it will run from door to door. |