William Henry Davies
William Henry Davies was born in Newport, Monmouthshire, Wales. His father was, at the time a Publican. He was brought up by his grandparents in The Church House inn. After an apprenticeship as a picture-frame maker and a series of labouring jobs, he travelled to America, first to New York and then to the Klondike.
He returned to England after an accident whilst jumping a train in Canada, he lost a foot. Upon his return to Britain he led a poor, hard life living in London lodging houses and as a pedlar in the country. He married in 1923, Helen, who was much younger than he. His first poems were published when he was 34.
Most of his poetry is on the subject of nature or ... more »
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William Henry Davies Poems
What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs
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.
When I had money, money, O! I knew no joy till I went poor; For many a false man as a friend Came knocking all day at my door.
A Plain Life
No idle gold -- since this fine sun, my friend, Is no mean miser, but doth freely spend. No prescious stones -- since these green mornings show,
Rich or Poor
With thy true love I have more wealth Than Charon's piled-up bank doth hold; Where he makes kings lay down their crowns And life-long misers leave their gold.
The Best Friend
Now shall I walk Or shall I ride? "Ride", Pleasure said; "Walk", Joy replied.
If I were gusty April now, How I would blow at laughing Rose; I'd make her ribbons slip their knots, And all her hair come loose.
Indeed this is the sweet life! my hand Is under no proud man's command; There is no voice to break my rest Before a bird has left its nest;
A Fleeting Passion
Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp, Let's grimly kiss with bated breath; As quietly and solemnly As Life when it is kissing Death.
A Great Time
Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad, Beyond the town, where wild flowers grow -- A rainbow and a cuckoo, Lord, How rich and great the times are now!
Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright; Thy beauty makes me like the child That cries aloud to own thy light:
In the Country
This life is sweetest; in this wood I hear no children cry for food; I see no woman, white with care; No man, with muscled wasting here.
Come, Let Us Find
Come, let us find a cottage, love, That's green for half a mile around; To laugh at every grumbling bee, Whose sweetest blossom's not yet found.
I hear leaves drinking rain; I hear rich leaves on top Giving the poor beneath Drop after drop;
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.