Happiness
A drunkard bends his head to the rills, And the moss, grown grey by the weather: The leaden turf is marred by his spills, Whose hearts awaken together.
The sun, in silence, spreads o’er the ground And fills with his golden rays, The petals parched in their wrinkled mound At last, he blesses the day.
Ah! this is the joy, of the falling grain, To bask in a sun-tan’d light, To leap in thought from the soul to the rain, Till the evening enshrouds with night!
- Thomas Hardy