Page:Foliage, various poems.djvu/57

 For charity that's small and late;

While others haunt in idle leisure,

Theatre doors to pay for pleasure.

No more I'll walk those crowded places

And take hot dreams from harlots' faces;

I'll know no more those passions' dreams,

While musing near these quiet streams;

That biting state of savage lust

Which, true love absent, burns to dust.

Gold's rattle shall not rob my ears

Of this sweet music of the spheres.

I'll walk abroad with fancy free;

Each leafy, summer's morn I'll see

The trees, all legs or bodies, when

They vary in their shapes like men.

I'll walk abroad and see again

How quiet pools are pricked by rain;

And you shall hear a song as sweet

As when green leaves and raindrops meet.

I'll hear the Nightingale's fine mood,

Rattling with thunder in the wood,

Made bolder by each mighty crash;

Who drives her notes with every flash

Of lightning through the summer's night.

No more I'll walk in that pale light

That shows the homeless man awake,

Ragged and cold; harlot and rake,