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Mary Darby Robinson - Sonnet -- The Peasant
Work rating: Low

WIDE o`er the barren plain the bleak wind flies, 
  Sweeps the high mountain`s top, and with its breath 
  Swells the curl`d river o`er the plain beneath, 
Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies. 

The hardy PEASANT in his little cot, 
  Lights his small fire, his homely meal prepares; 
  No pamper`d luxury, no splendid cares 
Invade the comforts of his humble lot. 

Born to endure, he labours thro` the day, 
  And when the midnight storm o`er spreads the skies, 
  On a clean pallet peacefully he lies, 
And sweetly sleeps the lonely hours away; 
Till at the peep of dawn he wakes to find, 
HEALTH in his veins, and RAPTURE IN HIS MIND.
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