---

Oliver Wendell Holmes - Contentment
Work rating: Low

"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 baubles; `t is 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 aud 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!
Source
The script ran 0.003 seconds.