  It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air, Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky; And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the fox-gloves purple and white; Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the pools to drink, When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. O! to feel the warmth of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; And the blessed green comely meadows seem all a-ripple with mirth At the lilt of the shifting feet, and the dear wild cry of the birds. |
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