The Pleasures of Hope
O, what a joy it is to ride
Upon withering fields of grain,
Where the gentle breezes glide,
Rendering every fragrance plain!
To see the lavender and rue,
To see the yellow fields and blue,
‘Tis nature’s best in golden array,
Leading forth the fleeting day!
O for a season without fear,
Where every cypress shall appear —
When every hue would ripen slow;
While the flowers bloom would grow!
And as the tranquil sun goes down,
Let roses greet his emerald crown,
Let summer wrap her arms around,
In nature’s arms so sweetly found!
- Thomas Hood