There is joy in the woods just now, <br /> The leaves are whispers of song, <br />And the birds make mirth on the bough <br /> And music the whole day long, <br />And God! to dwell in the town <br /> In these springlike summer days, <br />On my brow an unfading frown <br /> And hate in my heart always— <br /> <br />A machine out of gear, aye, tired, <br />Yet forced to go on—for I’m hired. <br /> <br />Just forced to go on through fear, <br /> For every day I must eat <br />And find ugly clothes to wear, <br /> And bad shoes to hurt my feet <br />And a shelter for work-drugged sleep! <br /> A mere drudge! but what can one do? <br />A man that’s a man cannot weep! <br /> Suicide? A quitter? Oh, no! <br /> <br />But a slave should never grow tired, <br />Whom the masters have kindly hired. <br /> <br />But oh! for the woods, the flowers <br /> Of natural, sweet perfume, <br />The heartening, summer showers <br /> And the smiling shrubs in bloom, <br />Dust-free, dew-tinted at morn, <br /> The fresh and life-giving air, <br />The billowing waves of corn <br /> And the birds’ notes rich and clear:— <br /> <br />For a man-machine toil-tired <br />May crave beauty too—though he’s hired<br /><br />Claude McKay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/joy-in-the-woods/
