THE FOOTPATH WAY
The fountains of the meadows play,
This is the wild bee's holiday;
When summer-snows have sweetly drest
The pasture like a wedding-guest,
This is the wild bee's holiday;
When summer-snows have sweetly drest
The pasture like a wedding-guest,
By fields of beans that shall eclipse
The honey on the rose's lips,
With woodruff and the new hay's breath,
And wild thyme sweetest in her death.
The honey on the rose's lips,
With woodruff and the new hay's breath,
And wild thyme sweetest in her death.
Skirting the rich man's lawn and hall,
The footpath way is free to all;
For us his pinks and roses blow:
Fling him thanksgiving ere we go!
The footpath way is free to all;
For us his pinks and roses blow:
Fling him thanksgiving ere we go!
By orchards yet in rosy veils,
By hidden nests of nightingales,
Through lonesome valleys where all day
The rabbit people scurry and play.
By hidden nests of nightingales,
Through lonesome valleys where all day
The rabbit people scurry and play.
The footpath sets her tender lure,
This is the country for the poor;
The high-road seeks the crowded sea;
Come, take the footpath way with me!
This is the country for the poor;
The high-road seeks the crowded sea;
Come, take the footpath way with me!
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