Come, friend scholar, cease your bending
Over books with eager gaze;
Time it were such work had ending,—
Well enough for rainy days.
Out with me where sunlight pours,
Life to-day is out of doors!

Busy? Pshaw! what good can reach you
Frowning o'er that dog-eared page?
Yonder rushing brook can teach you
More than half your Classic Age.
Banish Greeks and Siren shores,
Let your thoughts run out of doors!

Rest we here where none can spy us,
Deep in rippling fields of grass;
Scented winds blow softly by us,
Lazy clouds above us pass;
Higher yet my fancy soars—
All my soul is out of doors!

Literary Monthly, 1888.

[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1907, by T.M. Banks. With permission.]