Poems (Cary)/Enjoy

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ENJOY.
That the dear tranced Pleasures of a night Puts on her hood of thorns at break of day—Passing the cornfields, and the hedges gay With honeysuckles, straight: her feet, so white,Buried down deep in dust—aside from all The sweet birds making love-songs in the woods,The way-side cottage with its cold green wall Of moss against the sun, the fennel budsFringing the hay-fields—all of us do know; And yet, for that we are not always blest,Shall we be always weepers, and so burn Our dainty bodies, slacking with our tearsThe scorchéd stones our stumblings overturn, And making double measurements of woe?Nay, I do rather deem that road the best, Which hath good inns beside; where oftenest cheersThe well, where man and beast may drink their fill, Nor stint belated travellers one whit;And all the house is with white candles litWhen day burns down, and where the housewife still Hath some red earthen pot of marigolds That look like sunshine when the withered wolds ​Are under the flat snow. For is it wrong If human needs have human comforting?Or shall the sweetness of our winter song Keep the green April buds from blossoming?

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