W. H. Davies

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.

What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.

I also love a quiet place That's green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me.

Go you and, with such glorious hues, Live with proud peacocks in green parks.

It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues.

People are not to be blamed for their doubts, but that they make no effort to arrive at the truth.

Cats — by day the most docile of God's creatures, everyone of them in the night enlisting under the devil's banner — took the place by storm after the human voice had ceased.

What a glorious time of the year is this [Spring]! With the warm sun travelling through serene skies, the air clear and fresh above you, which instils new blood in the body, making one defiantly tramp the earth, kicking the snows aside in …

This man has talent, that man genius, And here's the strange and cruel difference: Talent gives pence and his reward is gold, Genius gives gold and gets no more than pence.

Let us not judge life by its number of breaths, but by the number of times that breath is held, or lost, either under a deep emotion caused by love, or when we stand before an object of interest or beauty.

What sweet, what happy days had I, When dreams made Time Eternity!

From my own kind I only learn How foolish comfort is

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.

The collier's wife had four tall sons Brought from the pit's mouth dead, And crushed from foot to head

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent; Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze.

They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, They cried so loud I could not sleep: For fifty thousand shillings down I would not sail again with sheep.

Autumn grows old: he, like some simple one, In Summer's castaway is strangely clad