Acup too full may give you less Of cordial or of loveliness—
If sustenance you need to get—
Than will this one before you set.
With its few scarlets by a fence,
Together scraped as were they pence,
A field may candle you, and there A cloak out of its rags may spare.
Better than dark a candle end;
A cloak a bitter gust can fend;
But look abroad and look again;
A wider affluence is plain.
Unhindered beauty goes about,
Cockcrow to cockcrow, in and out,
And face to face: once could you see Not any higher than its knee.
Half-hidden from you were that or this—
Sometime a secret is amiss—
Now take this unencumbered air,
And an estate spread everywhere.
There is a small grief in the sun;
A foot must plod now and not run;
A proper staff would not be vain To help you up a country lane.
Here, in the naked and strange grass,
Like a thin splendor in a glass You start from, is one rose gone sere;
And simple, unknown trees are here.