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User Rating:
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6.0
/10
(31 votes)
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Now, joy is born of parents poor,
And pleasure of our richer kind;
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing
As sweet a song as joy confined.
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.
Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks
Away on blossoms its sweet hour;
But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp,
That plums and cherries would devour.
Joy's like a Lark that lives alone,
Whose ties are very strong, though few;
But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,
Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.
Joy from her heart doth sing at home,
With little care if others hear;
But pleasure then is cold and dumb,
And sings and laughs with strangers near.
William Henry Davies
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Friday, January 03, 2003 |
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Read poems about / on: butterfly, joy, nature, song, home, alone, light, night, heart, dance, friend, sleep
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Comments about this poem (Joy and Pleasure
by
William Henry Davies
) |
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H. Balasubramanian (6/3/2010 3:03:00 AM)
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This was one of the three poems of Davies prescribed for my graduation, . I read it in 1968. Now after service retirement and SWEET STAY AT HOME, I wanted to go through his poems again. My hunt ended in Poet Hunter, which is treasure island of poems. Great service. Thank the managers.
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Sylva Portoian (2/26/2010 2:17:00 AM)
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Davies, it seems when I read your poems
I can stimulate my senses forever.
With your poem, Joy and Pleasure
You’re differentiating between joy of poor in wealth
and pleasure of rich in a very truthful manner—
Joy is deeper in sense than pleasure,
Pleasure disappears but joy, never.
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Neil O (7/18/2006 7:33:00 PM)
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Good poem, simply yet philosophic in theme. Not grand but loveable and touching.
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