"And barley-bread is bitter to taste, While sugary cakes they please-- Which will you choose, O which will you choose, Which will you choose of these?
"For if you choose the mountain streams And barley-bread to eat, Your heart will be free as the birds in the tree, But the stones will cut your feet.
"The mud will spoil your silken gown, And stain your insteps high; The dogs in the farm will wish you harm And bark as you go by.
"And though your heart grow deep and gay, And your heart grow wise and rich, The cold will make your bones to ache And you will die in a ditch."
"O gentle, gentle gipsies, That roam the wide world through, Although I praise your wandering ways, I dare not come with you."
I hung about their fingers brown My ruby rings and chain, And with my head as heavy as lead, I turned me back again.
As I went up the palace steps, I heard the gipsies laugh; The birds of Spring so sweet did sing; My heart it broke in half.
The dandelion is brave and gay, And loves to grow beside the way; A braver thing was never seen To praise the grass for growing green; You never saw a gayer thing, To sit and smile and praise the Spring.
The children with their simple hearts, The lazy men that come in carts, The little dogs that lollop by, They all have seen its shining eye: And every one of them would say, They never saw a thing so gay.
Like to islands in the seas, Stand our personalities-- Islands where we always face One another's watering-place. When we promenade our sands We can hear each other's bands, We can see on festal nights Red and green and purple lights, Gilt pavilions in a row, Stucco houses built for show.
But our eyes can never reach Further than the tawdry beach, Never can they hope to win To the wonders far within: Jagged rocks against the sky Where the eagles haunt and cry, Forests full of running rills, Darkest forests, sunny hills, Hollows where a dragon lowers, Sweet and unimagined flowers.
Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she: I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare--rare it be; And when I crumble who will remember This lady of the West Country?
Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets Under the ghost of the moon; And so dark is that vaulted purple, Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars, Pale in the noonday skies.