Classic Poem

Am I, poor gardener, happy? Yes,
I am, and have a right to be!
Much toil and trouble, I confess,
Has God, my God, allotted me;
But pleasures, also, not a few, —
For which what thanks to Him belong! —
And heart and voice to sing them, too,
As sings the lark his morning-song.

As bright and early as the sun,
Up from my bed of straw I spring,
And hours and minutes, as they run,
Bring joy and gladness on their wing.
At early morn, his friendly ray
Paints me the top of every tree,
And when he sinks, at close of day,
Still through the twigs he blinks at me.

The birds that sing to welcome spring,
Each morning sing to welcome me;
For I have never stained a wing,
Nor robbed a nest in bush or tree.
This makes each creature kind to me,
That hovers o'er me in the air,
And worm and insect fearlessly
With me the common bounty share.

When we have sung our matin-song,
Brisk to our daily work we run;
And then we sing and spring along
Back to our meal when work is done.
My table on the turf is spread,
Sweet krout and cooling must are there;
More sweet to me my daily bread,
Than to a king his costliest fare.

I snatch a hasty meal, then go
Fresh to my daily work again;
And hours of toil like minutes flow,
Sweet birds! beneath your merry strain.
Full oft I pause to hear and see
Great Nature's life-tides ripple round;
Here little gnat-choirs hum their glee,
There roam the bees o'er flowery ground.

The God who made and doth sustain
Each little life, however brief,
Makes nothing empty or in vain;
No, not the tiniest trembling leaf.
There's not a blade of grass that grows,
My browsing lambkin leaves behind;
In vain no smallest flower-cup blows;
In every thing a use I find.

Here, for example, God has made
My digging serve his purpose, too;
For you, ye ravens! works my spade,
And, little singing birds! for you.
For you, fat worms I bring to sight,
And dig up chafers from the sand;
Then on my spade you come and light,
And sing, and pick from out my hand.

The small ground-sparrow, hopping round,
Looks up to me with wistful eyes,
Till some poor little worm is found,
Then hastens homeward with her prize.
Like her, I hie me home to rest,
Sweet slumber crowns my evening-song,
At morn I wake with buoyant breast,
And feel both soul and body strong.

And all these pleasures with my queen
I share, my faithful gardeneress.
A king would envy me, I ween,
All that I am could he but guess.
I am contented with my lot,
My bread is sweet, my krout is nice,
I reign a monarch in my cot;
My garden is a paradise.