Invitation to the Country

Again with pleasant greenHas Spring renewed the wood,And where the bare trunks stoodAre leafy arbours seen;And back on budding boughsCome birds, to court and pair,Whose rival amorous vowsAmaze the scented air.

The freshets are unbound,And leaping from the hill,Their mossy banks refillWith streams of light and sound:And scattered down the meads,From hour to hour unfoldA thousand buds and beadsIn stars and cups of gold.

Now hear, and see, and note,The farms are all astir,And every labourerHas doffed his winter coat;And how with specks of whiteThey dot the brown hillside,Or jaunt and sing outrightAs by their teams they stride.

They sing to feel the SunRegain his wanton strength;To know the year at lengthRewards their labour done;To see the rootless stakeThey set bare in the ground,Burst into leaf, and shakeIts grateful scent around.

Ah now an evil lotIs his, who toils for gain,Where crowded chimneys stainThe heavens his choice forgot;'Tis on the blighted treesThat deck his garden dim,And in the tainted breeze,That sweet Spring comes to him.

Far sooner I would chooseThe life of brutes that bask,Than set myself a task,Which inborn powers refuse:And rather far enjoyThe body, than inventA duty, to destroyThe ease which nature sent;

And country life I praise,And lead, because I findThe philosophic mindCan take no middle ways;She will not leave her loveTo mix with men, her artIs all to strive aboveThe crowd, or stand apart.

Thrice happy he, the rarePrometheus, who can playWith hidden things, and layNew realms of nature bare;Whose venturous step has trodHell underfoot, and wonA crown from man and GodFor all that he has done.--

That highest gift of all,Since crabbèd fate did floodMy heart with sluggish blood,I look not mine to call;But, like a truant freed,Fly to the woods, and claimA pleasure for the deedOf my inglorious name:

And am content, deniedThe best, in choosing right;For Nature can delightFancies unoccupiedWith ecstasies so sweetAs none can even guess,Who walk not with the feetOf joy in idleness.

Then leave your joyless ways,My friend, my joys to see.The day you come shall beThe choice of chosen days:You shall be lost, and learnNew being, and forgetThe world, till your returnShall bring your first regret.