My coachman, in the moonlight there,
Looks through the side light of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do,—but only more.
Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fists in vain,
And dooms me to a place...
I weigh not fortune’s frown or smile;
I joy not much in earthly joys;
I seek not state, I reck not style;
I am not fond of fancy’s toys:
I rest so pleased with what I have,
I wish no more, no more I crave.
I quake not at the thunder’s...
A hut, and a tree,
And a hill for me,
And a piece of a weedy meadow.
I’ll ask no thing,
Of God or king,
But to clear away his shadow.