William Henry Davies

(3 July 1871 – 26 September 1940 / Monmouthshire / Wales)

William Henry Davies Poems

1. The Worms' Contempt 8/3/2015
2. The Old Oak Tree 1/28/2016
3. The Heap Of Rags 1/3/2003
4. Ale 1/3/2003
5. The Sluggard 1/3/2003
6. The Hawk 1/3/2003
7. The Likeness 1/3/2003
8. The Hermit 1/3/2003
9. The Flood 1/3/2003
10. Nell Barnes 1/3/2003
11. The Bird Of Paradise 1/3/2003
12. This Night 1/3/2003
13. The Sleepers 1/3/2003
14. The Boy 1/3/2003
15. The Mind's Liberty 1/3/2003
16. Charms 1/3/2003
17. Where We Differ 1/3/2003
18. In May 1/3/2003
19. A Greeting 1/3/2003
20. Truly Great 1/3/2003
21. The Child And The Mariner 1/3/2003
22. No Master 1/3/2003
23. All In June 1/3/2003
24. Come, Let Us Find 1/3/2003
25. Seeking Beauty 1/3/2003
26. The Dark Hour 1/3/2003
27. When On A Summer's Morn 1/3/2003
28. A Fleeting Passion 1/3/2003
29. Songs Of Joy 1/3/2003
30. Sadness And Joy 1/3/2003
31. Days Too Short 1/3/2003
32. Sweet Stay-At-Home 1/3/2003
33. Thunderstorms 1/3/2003
34. The Villain 1/3/2003
35. The Example 1/3/2003
36. The Happy Child 1/3/2003
37. The Fog 3/5/2015
38. A Great Time 1/3/2003
39. In The Country 1/3/2003
40. Laughing Rose 1/3/2003
Best Poem of William Henry Davies

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Read the full of Leisure

The Villain

While joy gave clouds the light of stars,
That beamed wher'er they looked;
And calves and lambs had tottering knees,
Excited, while they sucked;
While every bird enjoyed his song,
Without one thought of harm or wrong--
I turned my head and saw the wind,
Not far from where I stood,
Dragging the corn by her golden hair,

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