I have wasted the day in the fields and the lanes,
I have tramped in the leaves and the mud;
I have dined upon air and scrumped me a pear
And an apple the colour of blood.
Though my fingers are purple from blackberry stains,
Though my hair is a tangle of straw;
Though my jacket was torn upon bramble and thorn,
My binoculars bent in a foolish ascent —
It was worth it for all that I saw.
It was worth all the aches, it was worth all the pains —
I have rambled and scrambled and raced;
And my elbow is scratched and my coat must be patched,
And I waded in brooks and neglected my books,
And I startled a hare (and the taste of that pear!)
What waste, what a glorious waste!