A Roadway

Let those who will stride on their barren roads
  And prick themselves to haste with self-made goads,
  Unheeding, as they struggle day by day,
  If flowers be sweet or skies be blue or gray:
  For me, the lone, cool way by purling brooks,
  The solemn quiet of the woodland nooks,
  A song-bird somewhere trilling sadly gay,
  A pause to pick a flower beside the way.