Classic Poem

To glean the fields of life and take the grain
With thorns or poppies as the gods decree;
To lightly jest at Winter's wrath and see
Flowers in frost upon the window-pane;
To build our airy castle-walls in Spain,
However bare the near surroundings be —
This is the secret of content; the key
Which men have given all the world to gain.

We find it where the sun and shadows meet
In sylvan spaces cloistered from the town,
Where vague, yet clear, its presence may be seen;
It rustles in the dead leaves at our feet
It catches at the ruffle of your gown,
And beckons on with happy eyes serene.