Content

When I behold how some pursue     Fame, that is Care's embodiment     Or fortune, whose false face looks true,     An humble home with sweet content     Is all I ask for me and you.     An humble home, where pigeons coo,     Whose path leads under breezy lines     Of frosty-berried cedars to     A gate, one mass of trumpet-vines,     Is all I ask for me and you.     A garden, which all summer through,     The roses old make redolent,     And morning-glories, gay of hue,     And tansy, with its homely scent,     Is all I ask for me and you.     An orchard, that the pippins strew,     From whose bruised gold the juices spring;     A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue,     Wine-big and ripe for vintaging,     Is all I ask for me and you.     A lane that leads to some far view     Of forest or of fallow-land,     Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue,     Each with a bee in its hot hand,     Is all I ask for me and you.     At morn, a pathway deep with dew,     And birds to vary time and tune;     At eve, a sunset avenue,     And whippoorwills that haunt the moon,     Is all I ask for me and you.     Dear heart, with wants so small and few,     And faith, that's better far than gold,     A lowly friend, a child or two,     To care for us when we are old,     Is all I ask for me and you.