Blame me not that this epistle Is the first you have from me; Idleness hath held me fettered; But at last the times are bettered, And once more I wet my whistle Here in France beside the sea.
All the green and idle weather, I have had in sun and shower Such an easy, warm subsistence, Such an indolent existence, I should find it hard to sever Day from day and hour from hour.
Many a tract-provided ranter May upbraid me, dark and sour, Many a bland Utilitarian, Or excited Millenarian, —“ Pereunt et imputantur ”— You must speak to every hour.
But (the very term’s deception) You at least, my Friend, will see That in sunny grassy meadows, Trailed across by moving shadows, To be actively receptive Is as much as man can be.
He that all the winter grapples Difficulties—thrust and ward— Needs to cheer him thro’ his duty Memories of sun and beauty, Orchards with the russet apples Lying scattered on the sward.
Many such I keep in prison, Keep them here at heart unseen, Till my muse again rehearses Long years hence, and in my verses You shall meet them re-arisen, Ever comely, ever green.
You know how they never perish, How, in time of later art, Memories consecrate and sweeten Those defaced and tempest-beaten Flowers of former years we cherish Half a life, against our heart.
Most, those love-fruits withered greenly, Those frail, sickly amourettes— How they brighten with the distance, Take new strength and new