In youth audacity is wise

By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men.

Is idleness indeed so black a crime?What are the Busy doing, half their time?

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.