Ада Кембридж (Кросс) (Ada Cambridge (Cross))

The Season

And must I wear a silken life,
   Hemmed in by city walls?
And must I give my garden up
   For theatres and balls?

Nay, though the cage be made of gold,
   'Tis better to be free;
The green of the green meadows, love,
   Is quite enough for me.

I'd rather ramble through the lanes
   Than drive about in town;
I'd rather muse or dream than dance,
   When the stars are shining down.
I do not care for diamonds, dear,
   But I care a deal for flowers;
And thousands are just creeping out
   For the sunshine and the showers.

I like to hear the Household band,
   But I love the bird-songs best;
And hark! how they are twittering now
   Round each half-hidden nest!

The wind is whispering in the leaves,
   And the downy bees begin
To hum in the blossoming sycamores,
   And the brook is chiming in.

There is such melody in the woods,
   Such music in the air!
The streets are full of life and sound,
   And yet 'tis silent there.
I like to see the pictures—ay,
   But I am hard to please!
I never saw a picture yet
   As great and grand as these;

Such tones of colour as transform
   The tender green and brown,
When the pink dawn is flushing up,
   Or the red sun sinking down;

Such painting as the chestnut bud
   Shows in its opening heart;
Such lights as shine 'twixt earth and sky
   When rain-clouds break apart;

Such soft, warm, subtle tints, as lie
   In every mossy patch—
On the blue-brown trunks, now filled with life,
   And the humble roof of thatch,—
In the purple hollows of the hills,
   In the lichen on the wall,
In the orchard and the feathery woods,
   And the sun-lit waterfall.

I like my humble country ways,
   My simple, early meals;
I like to potter about the yard,
   With my chickens at my heels.

I'd rather climb this brambly steep,
   Where freshest sea-winds blow,
With my old straw hat hanging down my back.
   Than canter along the Row.

To me (it's vulgar, dear, I know)
   No fête is half so gay
As a cricket-match on the village green,
   Or a picnic in the hay.
Ah, yes! I'm happier as I am,—
   I'm ignorant, you see;
And the life of fashion that you love
   Would never do for me.

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