With a Shakespeare in my pocket, and an English briar,
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With a brook to run beside me, and the morning at its spring,
With the climbing road before me, and the mountains catching fire,
I feel as I imagine it must feel to be a king.
Be it April or October, wild-rose or silk-weed pod,
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The larch's tender green, or the maple's bannered gold,
With my briar for my comrade, and my Shakespeare for my god,
I wonder what the people mean that talk of growing old.
"The Muses love the morning," wrote Erasmus long ago,
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And the only place to meet the gods is on the hills at morn;
There still the sacred asphodel, and mystic myrtle grow,
And Memnon sings with joy, because another day is born.
O up into the radiance, for ever on and on,
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Be it hoar-frost on the pasture, or blossom on the vine,
With a briar breathing incense, and a song to lean upon,
A song from "As You Like It"—is to lead the life divine.