  High clamour of rooks o’er a meadow of clover That make for their haunts at the break of the day; Low babble of brooks where the rain-spotted plover Paddles at noon through the sand-banks grey; Gold-banded bees on their murmuring way To the honey-filled blossoms that yield their sweet— These are the visions that round us play As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street. Slow pacing of herds and the song of the drover; A score of clean sails in a Kentish bay, With a glimpse of the castle and cliffs of Dover, And the girdle of sea that shall gleam alway; Far off in the fields where they make the hay Darby and Dorothy manage to meet, And kiss for a moment—alack-a-day! As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street. Across the wide world Love is ever a rover, In palace or cot not content to stay. Soon the pastoral play of our youth is over With its spangles of hope and its fine array. June stifles the flowers that are born in May, And their beauties the autumn shall not repeat; Our fancies the Fates try to strangle and slay— As we steer through the turbulent throng of the street. Let us heed not the passers or what they say, While Love in our hearts finds a safe retreat, For souls can reach Heaven, though feet may stray As they steer through the turbulent throng of the street. |
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