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 And ousel pipes and laverock trills,

And young lambs buck and bleat; So long as that which bursts the bud

And swells and tunes the rill Makes springtime in the maiden's blood,

Life is worth living still.

Life not worth living! Come with me,

Now that, through vanishing veil, Shimmers the dew on lawn and lea,

And milk foams in the pail; Now that June's sweltering sunlight bathes

With sweat the striplings lithe, As fall the long straight scented swathes

Over the crescent scythe; Now that the throstle never stops

His self-sufficing strain, And woodbine-trails festoon the copse,

And eglantine the lane; Now rustic labour seems as sweet

As leisure, and blithe herds Wend homeward with unweary feet,

Carolling like the birds; Now all, except the lover's vow,

And nightingale, is still; Here, in the twilight hour, allow,

Life is worth living still.

When Summer, lingering half-forlorn,

On Autumn loves to lean, And fields of slowly yellowing corn

Are girt by woods still green;

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