"What Mister Moon Said to Me."
Come, eat the bread of idleness,
Come, sit beside the spring:
Some of the flowers will keep awake,
Some of the birds will sing.
Come, eat the bread no man has sought
For half a hundred years:
Men hurry so they have no griefs,
Nor even idle tears:
They hurry so they have no loves:
They cannot curse nor laugh--
Their hearts die in their youth with neither
Grave nor epitaph.
My bread would make them careless,
And never quite on time--
Their eyelids would be heavy,
Their fancies full of rhyme:
Each soul a mystic rose-tree,
Or a curious incense tree:
. . . .
Come, eat the bread of idleness,
Said Mister Moon to me.