Poem by William Henry Davies

Joy and Pleasure

NOW, joy is born of parents poor,
    And pleasure of our richer kind; 
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing
    As sweet a song as joy confined.

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.

Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks
    Away on blossoms its sweet hour; 
But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp,
    That plums and cherries would devour.

Joy's like a Lark that lives alone,
    Whose ties are very strong, though few; 
But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,
    Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.

Joy from her heart doth sing at home,
    With little care if others hear; 
But pleasure then is cold and dumb,
    And sings and laughs with strangers near. 

1. My Youth
2. Smiles
3. The Sleepers
4. The Starved
5. Poor Kings

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