Poetry Archives

My neighbor lives on the hill,
  And I in the valley dwell,
My neighbor must look down on me,
  Must I look up?—ah, well,
My neighbor lives on the hill,
  And I in the valley dwell.

My neighbor reads, and prays,
  And I—I laugh, God wot,
And sing like a bird when the grass is green
  In my small garden plot;
But ah, he reads and prays,
  And I—I laugh, God wot.

His face is a book of woe,
  And mine is a song of glee;
A slave he is to the great “They say,”
  But I—I am bold and free;
No wonder he smacks of woe,
  And I have the tang of glee.

My neighbor thinks me a fool,
  “The same to yourself,” say I;
“Why take your books and take your prayers,
  Give me the open sky;”
My neighbor thinks me a fool,
  “The same to yourself,” say I.