W. H. Davies Quotes
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It is not altogether shyness that now makes me unsuccessful in company. Sometimes it is a state of mind that is three parts meditation, that will not free the thoughts until their attendant trains are prepared to follow them.
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I had made up my mind to find a woman to share my life: one who would leave London altogether and go with me into the green country and be satisfied.
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We were determined to be in the fashion, and to visit the various delightful watering places on Long Island Sound. Of course, it would be necessary to combine business with pleasure and pursue our calling as beggars.
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I had now been in the United States of America something like five years, working here and there as the inclination seized me, which, I must confess, was not often. I was certainly getting some enjoyment out of life, but now and then the waste of time appalled me, for I still have a conviction that I was born to a different life.
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When I had money, money, O! I knew no joy till I went poor; For many a false man as a friend Came knocking all day at my door.
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What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?
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Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,Thou knowest of no strange continent;Thou hast not felt thy bosom keepA gentle motion with the deep;Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,Where scent comes forth in every breeze.
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What sweet, what happy days had I,When dreams made Time Eternity!
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Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day And dances by false glare at night; But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves To spread its wings in Nature's light.
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Peace to these little broken leaves, That strew our common ground; That chase their tails, like silly dogs, As they go round and round. For though in winter boughs are bare, Let us not once forget Their summer glory, when these leaves Caught the great Sun in their strong net; And made him, in the lower air, Tremble - no bigger than a star!
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Go you and, with such glorious hues,Live with proud peacocks in green parks.
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They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields,They cried so loud I could not sleep:For fifty thousand shillings downI would not sail again with sheep.
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Autumn grows old: he, like some simple one,In Summer's castaway is strangely clad
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Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp,Let's grimly kiss with bated breath;As quietly and solemnlyAs Life when it is kissing Death.