 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
XXV.
Flowers growing to the level of the hand;Flowers we may pluck without the toil of stooping;
And fruits from orchard branches gently drooping,
To our warm lips by every Zephyr fanned;
Delights, timid, yet tame, that come fast trooping,
Like birds that hear a well-known summons bland,
Such are the joys we hold at our command;
The joys that we escape, for ever scooping
The insalubrious mines of sensual Care
For stuff to load a back already weary,
Or climbing mountain ridges dark and bare
In search of colder winds, and views more dreary.
Ah, fatal Contradiction! do we roam,
Hoping to fly from self, or find a home?
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |