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.
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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
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.