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by William Henry Davies

No idle gold — since this fine sun, my friend,
Is no mean miser, but doth freely spend.

No precious stones — since these green mornings show,
Without a charge, their pearls where’er I go.

No lifeless books — since birds with their sweet tongues
Will read aloud to me their happier songs.

No painted scenes — since clouds can change their skies
A hundred times a day to please my eyes.

No headstrong wine — since, when I drink, the spring
Into my eager ears will softly sing.

No surplus clothes — since every simple beast
Can teach me to be happy with the least.