Classic Poem

My walls outside must have some flowers,
—My walls within must have some books;
A house that's small; a garden large,
—And in it leafy nooks:

A little gold that's sure each week;
—That comes not from my living kind,
But from a dead man in his grave,
—Who cannot change his mind:

A lovely wife, and gentle too;
—Contented that no eyes but mine
Can see her many charms, nor voice
—To call her beauty fine:

Where she would in that stone cage live,
—A self-made prisoner, with me;
While many a wild bird sang around,
—On gate, on bush, on tree.

And she sometimes to answer them,
—In her far sweeter voice than all;
Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,
—Will doat on a stone wall.

With this small house, this garden large,
—This little gold, this lovely mate,
With health in body, peace at heart—
—Show me a man more great.