The Season
And must I wear a silken life, Hemmed in by city walls?
And must I give my garden up For theatres and balls?
Nay, though the cage be made of gold, 'Tis better to be free;
The green of the green meadows, love, Is quite enough for me.
I'd rather ramble through the lanes Than drive about in town;
I'd rather muse or dream than dance, When the stars are shining down.
I do not care for diamonds, dear, But I care a deal for flowers;
And thousands are just creeping out For the sunshine and the showers.
I like to hear the Household band, But I love the bird-songs best;
And hark! how they are twittering now Round each half-hidden nest!
The wind is whispering in the leaves, And the downy bees begin To hum in the blossoming sycamores, And the brook is chiming in.
There is such melody in the woods, Such music in the air!
The streets are full of life and sound, And yet 'tis silent there.
I like to see the pictures—ay, But I am hard to please!
I never saw a picture yet As great and grand as these;
Such tones of colour as transform The tender green and brown,
When the pink dawn is flushing up, Or the red sun sinking down;
Such painting as the chestnut bud Shows in its opening heart;
Such lights as shine 'twixt earth and sky When rain-clouds break apart;
Such soft, warm, subtle tints, as lie In every mossy patch— On the blue-brown trunks, now filled with life, And the humble roof of thatch,— In the purple hollows of the hills, In the lichen on the wall,
In the orchard and the feathery woods, And the sun-lit waterfall.
I like my humble country ways, My simple, early meals;
I like to potter about the yard, With my chickens at my heels.
I'd rather climb this brambly steep, Where freshest sea-winds blow,
With my old straw hat hanging down my back. Than canter along the Row.
To me (it's vulgar, dear,
I know) No fête is half so gay As a cricket-match on the village green, Or a picnic in the hay.
Ah, yes!
I'm happier as I am,— I'm ignorant, you see;
And the life of fashion that you love Would never do for me.
Ada Cambridge
Other author posts
The Mob
Why stand dumbfounded and aghast, As at invading armies sweeping by, Surprised by haggard face and threatening cry, The storm unheralded, that rose so fast
Mates
It boots not to retrace the path To ages dim and hoar, When Man, at the domestic hearth, First learned the art of war, And—since in battle one must fall— Held his defeated spouse in thrall, That she should fight no more; And thereby...
Drunk
The filthy beast And is he here again, With his foul slobbering mouth and shuffling feet, To taint the atmosphere and shame the street,
Good-bye
Good-bye — 'tis like a churchyard bell — good-bye Poor weeping eyes Poor head, bowed down with woe
