All men who fain would pass their days
Amid old books and quiet ways,
Quaint thoughts and autumn's mellow haze,
The uses of tranquillity—
The peace you love be with your souls!
Come, fill we up our brown pipe-bowls,
And discourse to the bickering coals
Of kindness and civility.
Sirs, you remember Omar's choice—
Wine, verses, and his lady's voice
Making the wilderness rejoice?
It lacks one more ingredient.
A boon the Persian knew not of
Had made to mellower music move
The lips, to wine, perhaps to love,
A trifle too obedient.
This weed I call the herb o' grace.
My reasons are—as someone says—
Between me and the fireplace.
Ophelia spoke of rue, you know.
There's rue for you, and some for me,
But you must wear it differently.
Quite true, of course. This pipe, I see,
Draws hard. They sometimes do, you know.
Alas, if we in fancy's train
To drowse beside our fires are fain,
Letting the world slip by amain,
Uneager of its verities,
Our neighbors will not let us be
At peace with inutility.
They quote us maxims, two or three,
Or similar asperities
I question not, a man may bear
His still soul walled from noisy care,
And walk serene in places where
An ancient wrath is denizen.
The pilgrim's feet may know no ease,
And yet his heart's delight increase,
For all ways that are trod in peace
Lead upward to God's benison.
Poor ethics, these of mine, I fear;
And yet when our green leaves and sere
Have dropped away, perhaps we'll hear
Some questions answered curiously.
This battered book here on my knees?
Is Herrick, his Hesperides.
Gold apples from the guarded trees
Are stored here not penuriously.
Lyrist of mellow, gurgling phrase,
And quaint thought o' the elder days,
Loved holiness and primrose ways
About in equal quantities.
Wassail and yule-tide, feast and fair,
Blown petticoats, a child's low prayer,
And fine old pagan joy is there.
A wild-rose muse's haunt it is.
Dear herb o' grace, that kindred art
To all who choose the better part,
Grant us the Old World's childlike heart,
Now grown an antique rarity!
With Mayflowers on our swords and shields
We'll learn to babble o' green fields,
Like Falstaff, whom good humor yields
A place still in its charity.
Visions will come at times—I note
One with a cool white delicate throat—
Of names that shine on men remote,
And dreams of high endeavoring.
Care not for these, nor care to roam
Ulysses o'er the beckoning foam.
"Here rest and call content our home,"
Beside our fire's soft wavering.