Sonnet Vi. Oh, What Doth It Avail, In Busy Care - Poem 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.
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