Classic Poem

" Man wants out little here below,
Nor wants that little long. "
A gentle, genial bard was he
Who put that in his song.

It should have been some Anchorite,
Who, bound his flesh to slaughter,
Employed his days in counting beads,
And lived on roots and water.

He must have had, it seems to me.
A most contented mind,
And must have known but little of
That genus called mankind.

Who little wants, nor wants that long,
Is only half a human.
Man's wants are many, and, I own,
'Tis much the same with woman.

For instance I — and I suppose
That I am like the rest —
Have many wants that stir and fret
In my unquiet breast.

So many minus quantities
Come into my equation,
To name them all would go beyond
The scope of numeration.

I want my daily bread — and that
Includes a bill of fare
That, for its comprehensiveness,
Would make our poet stare.

Not all the fruits of every clime
Were I content with having;
Not all the cooks of all the world
Could satisfy my craving.

I want the strongest kinds of meats
To fill my larder lean;
I want the words of all the wise
That are or aye have been.

And then I want the power to choose
From out the vast collation;
I want to know, where now I toss
In doubt and speculation.

I want, beside, such solid fare,
All tender household words,
I want the lays of poets and
The songs of summer birds.

And then I want my friends — a few
Who know me well, yet love me,
And who, should swift disaster come,
Would not be sure to shove me.

I want both will and strength to rise
Above all hurtful things;
I want to be an angel — but
I was not born with wings.

I want — but it occurs to me
That space and type are finite.
Should I go on, the printer would
" Respectfully decline " it.