Poetry Archives

A very humble pen I ply
      Beneath a cottage thatch;
And in the sunny hours I try
      To till my cabbage patch;
And in the gloaming glad am I
             To lift the latch.
             
I do not plot to pile up pelf,
      With jowl and belly fat;
To simple song I give myself,
      And seek no gain at that:
Content if milk is on the shelf
             To feed the cat.

I joy that haleness I possess,
      Though fame has passed me by;
And see such gold of happiness
      A-shining in the sky,
I wonder who has won success,
             Proud men or I?

I do not grieve that I am poor,
      And by the world unknown;
Free as the wind, serene and sure,
      In peace I live alone.
’Tis better to be bard obscure
             Than King on Throne.