Classic Poem

A man of humble tastes am I,
Rude and untutored, knowing not
The dim ways of philosophy,
Or sunlit altitudes of thought.

Few are my wants: my days are spent
With God and Nature, far from strife;
My heart hath found the true content,
That gilds the humbler walks of life.

Fortune hath cast me not with those
Who hand in hand with Science walk;
But tell me how the violet blows,
And I will listen to your talk!

Thus love I not the brawling town,
Where change and tumult never cease,
And Folly's wild confusions drown
The songs of solitude and peace.

Green dells and woodland waterfalls,
More please me than gay Fashion's throng;
The music of their festive halls
Is nothing to my robin's song;

Who trills his rapsodies so loud
In glad bravuras, soaring free,
That you might fancy he was proud
To pipe his solos, all for me!

My draft no marble fountains pour,
Or nymph-supported urn distills;
The brook that sparkles by my door,
Is the pure crystal of the hills.

No hot-house plants that shun the air,
Are they by which my grounds are graced;
Here Nature is my gardener,
And sets the landscape to my taste.

All day the golden-banded bee
Hunts buckwheat bloom and clover top;
And the sleek, happy kine for me,
All the day the lush-green pastures crop.

Thus days revolve and years go round—
A life to sordid strife unknown,
But like the mill-wheel, with a sound
Of tranquil gladness, all its own.

Then give me but my humble glen,
Fresh air to breathe and room for thought;
I am at peace with God and men,
I am contented with my lot!