 | Poems |  |
“A MAN'S LIFE CONSISTETH NOT IN THE ABUNDANCE OF THE THINGS THAT HE POSSESSETH.”
Think'st thou the steed that restless roves
O'er fields and mountains, vales and groves,
With wild, unbridled bound,
Finds fresher pasture than the bee
On simple flower, or dewy tree,
Intent to store her industry
Within her waxen round?—
O'er fields and mountains, vales and groves,
With wild, unbridled bound,
Finds fresher pasture than the bee
On simple flower, or dewy tree,
Intent to store her industry
Within her waxen round?—
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Think'st thou the fountain made to turn
Through marble vase, or fretted urn
Affords a sweeter draught
Than that which in its native sphere
Perennial, undisturb'd, and clear
Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer
And wake his grateful thought?—
Through marble vase, or fretted urn
Affords a sweeter draught
Than that which in its native sphere
Perennial, undisturb'd, and clear
Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer
And wake his grateful thought?—
Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling's pride, and miser's gold
Obtains a richer prize
Than he, who in his cot at rest
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,
And bears the earnest in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?—
The worldling's pride, and miser's gold
Obtains a richer prize
Than he, who in his cot at rest
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,
And bears the earnest in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?—
| Poems | |