Sonnets VI

Oh, what doth it avail, in busy care
The summer of our days to pass away
In-doors — nor forth into the sunny ray,
Nor by the wood nor river-side to fare,
Nor on far-seeing hills to meet the air,
Nor watch the land-waves yean the shivering spray?
Oh, what doth it avail, though every day
Fresh-catered wealth its golden tribute bear?
Rather along the field-paths in the morn
To meet the first laugh of the twinkling east,
Or when the clear-eyed Aphrodite is born
Out from the amber ripples of the west,
'T is joy: — to move under the bended sky,
And smell the pleasant earth, and feel the winds go by.