Henry Alford

Sonnet VI. "Oh, what doth it avail, in busy care"

Oh, what doth it avail, in busy care The summer of our days to pass away In--doors, nor forth into the sunny ray, Nor by the wood nor river--side to fare, Nor on far--seeing hills to meet the air, Nor watch the land--waves yean the shivering spray? Oh, what doth it avail, though every day Fresh--catered wealth its golden tribute bear? Rather along the field--paths in the morn To meet the first laugh of the twinkling east, Or when the clear--eyed Aphrodite is born Out from the amber ripples of the west, 'Tis joy:--to move under the bended sky, And smell the pleasant earth, and feel the winds go by.