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Poem	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 in heart-- Show me a man more great.
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