Does The Road Wind Up-hill

Why One Day In The Country Is Worth A Month In Town; Is Worth A Day And A Year Of The Dusty, Musty, Lag-last Fashion That Days Drone Elsewhere.

My Heart Is Like A Singing Bird Whose Nest Is In A Water'd Shoot; My Heart Is Like An Apple-tree Whose Boughs Are Bent With Thick-set Fruit; My Heart Is Like A Rainbow Shell That Paddles In A Halcyon Sea; My Heart Is Gladder Than All These, Because My Love Is Come To Me. Raise Me A Daïs Of Silk And Down; Hang It With Vair And Purple Dyes; Carve It In Doves And Pomegranates, And Peacocks With A Hundred Eyes; Work It In Gold And Silver Grapes, In Leaves And Silver Fleurs-de-lys; Because The Birthday Of My Life Is Come, My Love Is Come To Me.

As A Tree My Sin Stands To Darken All Lands; Death Is The Fruit It Bore.

My Heart Is Like A Singing Bird.

Come To Me In The Silence Of The Night, Come To Me In The Speaking Silence Of A Dream. Come With Soft Rounded Cheeks And Eyes As Bright As Sunlight On A Stream. Come Back In Tears, O Memory, Hope, Love Of Finished Years.