Out by Saint’s Bay the water’s fairer

and the plums grow fat and sweet;

they say the air there is far fresher,

that vineyards stretch like rows of wheat.

 

They say the winter rains fall lightly,

and last but a week or two.

They say the summer nights will haunt you,

as true goodnights always do.

 

But I’ll admit to be less bitter,

in a Northern City fair,

though truth be told I’m far less rich there

my fine clothes turn’d homespun bare.

 

There the wind runs wildly howling,

like a drunk man out of doors.

There the plums are always souring,

and the streets turn scary dark.

 

But there my friends are waiting for me,

and there are paths yet untread.

There you’ll find me, in the autumn,

reading books yet unread.