Oh What Doth It Avail in Busy Care
by Henry Alford
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,
'Tis joy, to move under the bended sky,
And smell the pleasant earth, and feel the winds go by.