Come, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down, And leave the chargeable noise of this great town I will the country see Thomas Randolph. Oh, day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, A mite of my twelve hours' treasure, The least of thy gazes or glances The shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me! Thy long, blue, solemn hours serenely flowing, Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and goodThy fitful sunshine minutes, coming, going, As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood, All shall be mine! Robert Browning (Pippa Passes). O the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides! The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist fresh stillness of the woods, The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the forenoon. Walt Whitman. |