William Henry Davies
Joy and Pleasure
Now, joy is born of parents poor,
And pleasure of our richer kind;
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing
As sweet a song as joy confined.
Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day
And dances by false glare at night;
But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves
To spread its wings in Nature's light.
Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks
Away on blossoms its sweet hour;
But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp,
That plums and cherries would devour.
Joy's like a Lark that lives alone,
Whose ties are very strong, though few;
But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,
Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.
Joy from her heart doth sing at home,
With little care if others hear;
But pleasure then is cold and dumb,
And sings and laughs with strangers near.
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Comments about this poem (Joy and Pleasure by William Henry Davies )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1878 - 3 May 1916)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 August 1880 – 9 November 1918)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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