Impartiality - Sách nói Miễn phí

CONTENTMENT

                    "Man wants but little here below."
                    Little I ask; my wants are few;
                      I only wish a hut of stone,
                    (A very plain, brown stone' will do,)
                      That I may call my own;
                    And close at hand is such a one,
                    In yonder street that fronts the sun.

                    Plain food is quite enough for me;
                      Three courses are as good as ten;
                    If Nature can subsist on three,
                      Thank Heaven for three.  Amen!
                    I always thought cold victual nice;—
                    My choice would be vanilla-ice.

                    I care not much for gold or land;
                      Give me a mortgage here and there,
                    Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
                      Or trifling railroad share,—
                    I only ask that Fortune send
                    A little more than I shall spend.

                    Honors are silly toys, I know,
                      And titles are but empty names;
                    I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,—
                      But only near St. James;
                    I'm very sure I should not care
                    To fill our Gubernator's chair.

                    Jewels are bawbles; 'tis a sin
                      To care for such unfruitful things;
                    One good-sized diamond in a pin,—
                      Some, not so large, in rings,—
                    A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
                    Will do for me;—I laugh at show.

                    My dame should dress in cheap attire;
                      (Good, heavy silks are never dear;)
                    I own perhaps I might desire
                      Some shawls of true Cashmere,—
                    Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
                    Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

                    I would not have the horse I drive
                      So fast that folks must stop and stare;
                    An easy gait—two, forty-five—
                      Suits me; I do not care;
                    Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
                    Some seconds less would do no hurt.

                    Of pictures, I should like to own
                      Titians and Raphaels three or four,
                    I love so much their style and tone,—
                      One Turner, and no more,
                    (A landscape,—foreground golden dirt,—
                    The sunshine painted with a 'squirt.)

                    Of books but few,—some fifty score
                      For daily use, and bound for wear;
                    The rest upon an upper floor;—
                      Some little luxury there
                    Of red morocco's gilded gleam,
                    And vellum rich as country cream.

                    Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these,
                      Which others often show for pride,
                    I value for their power to please,
                      And selfish churls deride;—
                    One Stradivarius, I confess,
                    Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

                    Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn
                      Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;
                    Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
                      But all must be of buhl?
                    Give grasping pomp its double share,—
                    I ask but one recumbent chair.

                    Thus humble let me live and die,
                      Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
                    If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
                      I shall not miss them much,—
                    Too grateful for the blessing lent
                    Of simple tastes and mind content!