A Poem on the Inn

Here, at an inn, as breezes wave, I salt the sparse but breezy air, Where fragrant lands meet gardens’ grave, And landscape urges lovers fair.

O merry towns that abide, Forever, side by side, That touch the morn like cotton candy, Scents and happiness doth meet,

Too soon the evening’s song, And tribes of songbirds shrill, While sun shall turn to long Their love upon the hill.

• Ben Jonson