What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
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.
I hear leaves drinking rain;
I hear rich leaves on top
Giving the poor beneath
Drop after drop;
When April scatters charms of primrose gold
Among the copper leaves in thickets old,
And singing skylarks from the meadows rise,
To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;
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.