A squalid, hideous town, where streams run black <br />With vomit of a hundred roaring mills,- <br />Hither occasion calls me; and ev'n here, <br />All in the sable reek that wantonly <br />Defames the sunlight and deflowers the morn, <br />One may at least surmise the sky still blue. <br />Ev'n here, the myriad slaves of the machine <br />Deem life a boon; and here, in days far sped, <br />I overheard a kind-eyed girl relate <br />To her companions, how a favouring chance <br />By some few shillings weekly had increased <br />The earnings of her household, and she said: <br />'So now we are happy, having all we wished,'- <br />Felicity indeed! though more it lay <br />In wanting little than in winning all. <br /> <br />Felicity indeed! Across the years <br />To me her tones come back, rebuking; me, <br />Spreader of toils to snare the wandering Joy <br />No guile may capture and no force surprise- <br />Only by them that never wooed her, won. <br /> <br />O curst with wide desires and spacious dreams, <br />Too cunningly do ye accumulate <br />Appliances and means of happiness, <br />E'er to be happy! Lavish hosts, ye make <br />Elaborate preparation to receive <br />A shy and simple guest, who, warned of all <br />The ceremony and circumstance wherewith <br />Ye mean to entertain her, will not come.<br /><br />William Watson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/felicity-3/
