All out of doors for all life’s way, The fields and the woods and the good sunlight; And then in the chill of the evening gray, A sheltered nook and the hearth-fire bright.
No hearth, no shelter attend my way! Not late, dear life, linger not too late; But before the chill and before the gray, Let the sunset gild the grave-stone date.
Leafless April chased by light, Chased by dark and full of laughter, Stays a moment in her flight Where the warmest breezes waft her, By the meadow brook to lean, Or where winter rye is growing, Showing in a lovelier green Where her wayward steps are going.
Blithesome April brown and warm, Showing slimness through her tatters, Chased by sun or chased by storm-- Not a whit to her it matters. Swiftly through the violet bed, Down to where the stream is flooding Light she flits--and round her head See the orchard branches budding!
In the room where I was sleeping The sun came to the floor; Its silent thought went leaping To where in woods of yore It felt the sun before.
At noon the rain was slanting In gray lines from the west; A hurried child all panting It pattered to my nest, And smiled when sun-caressed.
At eve the wind was flying Bird-like from bed to chair, Of brown leaves sere and dying It brought enough to spare, And dropped them here and there.
At night-time without warning, I felt almost to pain The soul of the sun in the morning, And the soul of the wind and rain In my sleeping-room remain.
Autumn days are sun crowned, Full of laughing breath; Light their leafy feet are dancing Down the way to death.
Scarlet-shrouded to the grave I watch them gayly go; So may I as blithely die Before November snow.
Here ’mid these leafy walls Are sylvan halls, And all the Sabbaths of the year Are gathered here.
Upon their raptured mood My steps intrude, Then wait--as some freed soul might wait At heaven’s gate.
Nowhere on earth--nowhere On sea or air, Do I as easily escape This earthly shape,
As here upon the white And dizzy height Of utmost worship, where it seems Too still for dreams.
When twilight late delayeth, And morning wakes in song, And fields are full of daisies, I know the days are long; When Toil is stretched at nooning, Where leafy pleasures throng, When nights o’errun in music, I know the days are long.