On the Road.
The fields are all sweet with hay,1
The brakes are all blithe with song,2
On the hedges rose-garlands sway,3
Convolvulus-clusters throng,4
As shoeless, and tattered, and grimy, and grey,5
He shuffles along.6
A skylark sings high above,7
A thrush from yon hanging bough,8
Far away in the wood a dove ;9
But he passes with scowling brow.10
Their melodies once he was wont to love ;11
He hates them now.12
Hates all ; save the sheltering night,13
When under a bank he creeps,14
And Squalor is out of sight,15
And Hunger its distance keeps,16
And unmocked by the birds and the meadows bright,17
His misery sleeps.18