A Reed by the River/Leisurely Lane
LEISURELY LANE
Is there no road now to Leisurely Lane?—We travelled it long ago;
A place for the lagging of leisurely steps, sweet and shady and slow,
With rims of restful hills beyond, and fields of dreamful wheat,
With shadows of clouds above them blown and poppies asleep at our feet.
A place for the lagging of leisurely steps, sweet and shady and slow,
With rims of restful hills beyond, and fields of dreamful wheat,
With shadows of clouds above them blown and poppies asleep at our feet.
There lads and maids on a Sunday met and strolled them two and two,
The leaves they met in a roof o'erhead, and only the sun peered through,
And there was time to gather a rose, and time for the wild-bird's call,
And plenty of time to sit by a stream and harken its ripple and fall.
The leaves they met in a roof o'erhead, and only the sun peered through,
And there was time to gather a rose, and time for the wild-bird's call,
And plenty of time to sit by a stream and harken its ripple and fall.
Is there no road now to Leisurely Lane?—God knows we have wandered afar!
There was once a lamp through the brooding dusk, and over the tree a star,
There was once a breath of the clover bloom—sweet Heaven have we hurried so long!—
And there was a gate by a white rose clasped, and out of the dusk a song.
There was once a lamp through the brooding dusk, and over the tree a star,
There was once a breath of the clover bloom—sweet Heaven have we hurried so long!—
And there was a gate by a white rose clasped, and out of the dusk a song.
That song . . . the echo is strange and sweet, the voice it is weak and old. . .
It has no part with this fierce, wild rush and this hard, mad fight for gold!
It has no part with the clamor and din, the jarring of wheel and stone—
O listen, my heart, and forget,—forget that we reap the bread we have sown!
It has no part with this fierce, wild rush and this hard, mad fight for gold!
It has no part with the clamor and din, the jarring of wheel and stone—
O listen, my heart, and forget,—forget that we reap the bread we have sown!
Is there no road now to Leisurely Lane,—where lingering, one by one,
The summoning bells of twilight-time over the meadows blown
May find us, strolling our homeward way, glad of the evening star?
Is there no road now to Leisurely Lane?—God knows we have hurried afar.
The summoning bells of twilight-time over the meadows blown
May find us, strolling our homeward way, glad of the evening star?
Is there no road now to Leisurely Lane?—God knows we have hurried afar.