W. H. Davies Quotes

26 Sourced Quotes

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

W. H. Davies
It was the Rainbow gave thee birth,
And left thee all her lovely hues.

W. H. Davies
But cats to me are strange, so strange I cannot sleep if one is near.

W. H. Davies
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,
Thou knowest of no strange continent;
Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep
A gentle motion with the deep;
Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,
Where scent comes forth in every breeze.

W. H. Davies
It takes more than a short holiday to get a real love of Nature; such a love as makes trees like human companions, and green the colour we look for everywhere we go.

W. H. Davies
I turned my head and saw the wind,
Not far from where I stood,
Dragging the corn by her golden hair,
Into a dark and lonely wood.

W. H. Davies
I cannot see the short, white curls
Upon the forehead of an Ox,
But what I see them dripping with
That poor thing's blood, and hear the ax;
When I see calves and lambs, I see
Them led to death; I see no bird
Or rabbit cross the open field
But what a sudden shot is heard;
A shout that tells me men aim true,
For death or wound, doth chill me through.

W. H. Davies
Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day And dances by false glare at night; But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves To spread its wings in Nature's light.

W. H. Davies
When a man gives his whole heart to Nature, and has no cares outside, it is surprising how observant he becomes, and how curious he is to know the cause of things.

W. H. Davies
When I had money, money, O! I knew no joy till I went poor; For many a false man as a friend Came knocking all day at my door.

W. H. Davies
When on a summer's morn I wake,
And open my two eyes,
Out to the clear, born-singing rills
My bird-like spirit flies.

To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush,
Or any bird in song;
And common leaves that hum all day
Without a throat or tongue.

And when Time strikes the hour for sleep,
Back in my room alone,
My heart has many a sweet bird's song -
And one that's all my own.

W. H. Davies
What sweet, what happy days had I,
When dreams made Time Eternity!

W. H. Davies
They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields,
They cried so loud I could not sleep:
For fifty thousand shillings down
I would not sail again with sheep.

W. H. Davies
A rainbow and a cuckoo's song
May never come together again;
May never come
This side the tomb.

W. H. Davies
Girls scream,
Boys shout;
Dogs bark,
School's out.

W. H. Davies
Now shall I walk or shall I ride? 'Ride,' Pleasure said; 'Walk,' Joy replied.

W. H. Davies
Autumn grows old: he, like some simple one,
In Summer's castaway is strangely clad

W. H. Davies
From my own kind I only learn
How foolish comfort is

W. H. Davies
I also love a quiet place
That's green, away from all mankind;
A lonely pool, and let a tree
Sigh with her bosom over me.

W. H. Davies
Yes, I will spend the livelong day
With Nature in this month of May;
And sit beneath the trees, and share
My bread with birds whose homes are there;
While cows lie down to eat, and sheep
Stand to their necks in grass so deep;
While birds do sing with all their might,
As though they felt the earth in flight.

W. H. Davies
The collier's wife had four tall sons
Brought from the pit's mouth dead,
And crushed from foot to head

W. H. Davies
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

W. H. Davies
And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long—
The simple bird that thinks two notes a song.

W. H. Davies
Peace to these little broken leaves, That strew our common ground; That chase their tails, like silly dogs, As they go round and round. For though in winter boughs are bare, Let us not once forget Their summer glory, when these leaves Caught the great Sun in their strong net; And made him, in the lower air, Tremble - no bigger than a star!

W. H. Davies
Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp,
Let's grimly kiss with bated breath;
As quietly and solemnly
As Life when it is kissing Death.

W. H. Davies