Classic Poem

I N feildis grene,
Silver'd with hawthorne white,
To walk alone, and meditate unsene,
Is my delyte;

O'er uplande hills,
With payneful feet to straine,
And see grete shippes, whose sails the light wind fills,
On distant mayne;

Or whenne the sun
Climbs to his chamber high,
O'er willow banks where shallowe rivers run,
Creepe silent bye.

So pass my dayes,
From noisome cities far;
From hope and feare, from envy, blame, and praise,
And wordie war!

For it is sedde,
That nought was ever knowne
Of greate or goode to spring from harte or hedde.
But when alone.

I N feildis grene,
Silver'd with hawthorne white,
To walk alone, and meditate unsene,
Is my delyte;

O'er uplande hills,
With payneful feet to straine,
And see grete shippes, whose sails the light wind fills,
On distant mayne;

Or whenne the sun
Climbs to his chamber high,
O'er willow banks where shallowe rivers run,
Creepe silent bye.

So pass my dayes,
From noisome cities far;
From hope and feare, from envy, blame, and praise,
And wordie war!

For it is sedde,
That nought was ever knowne
Of greate or goode to spring from harte or hedde.
But when alone.