William H. Davies (1871–1940)

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.