Читать книгу Armazindy - James Whitcomb Riley - Страница 12

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A poor man? Yes, I must confess—

No wealth of gold do I possess;

No pastures fine, with grazing kine,

Nor fields of waving grain are mine;

No foot of fat or fallow land

Where rightfully my feet may stand

The while I claim it as my own—

By deed and title, mine alone.

Ah, poor indeed! perhaps you say—

But spare me your compassion, pray!—

When I ride not—with you—I walk

In Nature’s company, and talk

With one who will not slight or slur

The child forever dear to her—

And one who answers back, be sure,

With smile for smile, though I am poor.

And while communing thus, I count

An inner wealth of large amount,—

The wealth of honest purpose blent

With Penury’s environment,—

The wealth of owing naught to-day

But debts that I would gladly pay,

With wealth of thanks still unexpressed

With cumulative interest.—

A wealth of patience and content—

For all my ways improvident;

A faith still fondly exercised—

For all my plans unrealized;

A wealth of promises that still,

Howe’er I fail, I hope to fill;

A wealth of charity for those

Who pity me my ragged clothes.

A poor man? Yes, I must confess—

No wealth of gold do I possess;

No pastures fine, with grazing kine,

Nor fields of waving grain are mine;

But ah, my friend! I’ve wealth, no end!

For millionaires might condescend

To bend the knee and envy me

This opulence of poverty.