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Eugene Field - Contentment
Work rating: Low

Happy the man that, when his day is done,
  Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret--
The battle he has fought may not be won--
  The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet;
Folding at last his hands upon his breast,
  Happy is he, if hoary and forespent,
He sinks into the last, eternal rest,
  Breathing these only works: "I am content."

But happier he, that, while his blood is warm,
  See hopes and friendships dead about him lie--
Bares his brave breast to envy`s bitter storm,
  Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny;
And `mid it all, stands sturdy and elate,
  Girt only in the armor God hath meant
For him who `neath the buffetings of fate
  Can say to God and man: "I am content."
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