That the dear tranced Pleasures of a night
Puts on her hood of thorns at break of day—
Passing the cornfields, and the hedges gay
With honeysuckles, straight: her feet, so white,
Buried down deep in dust—aside from all
The sweet birds making love-songs in the woods,
The way-side cottage with its cold green wall
Of moss against the sun, the fennel buds
Fringing the hay-fields—all of us do know;
And yet, for that we are not always blest,
Shall we be always weepers, and so burn
Our dainty bodies, slacking with our tears
The scorchéd stones our stumblings overturn,
And making double measurements of woe?
Nay, I do rather deem that road the best,
Which hath good inns beside; where oftenest cheers
The well, where man and beast may drink their fill,
Nor stint belated travellers one whit;
And all the house is with white candles lit
When day burns down, and where the housewife still
Hath some red earthen pot of marigolds
That look like sunshine when the withered wolds
Are under the flat snow. For is it wrong
If human needs have human comforting?
Or shall the sweetness of our winter song
Keep the green April buds from blossoming?