Nothing Still
What at the least do I own
That I can proudly call mine:
My bountiful harvest of seeds sown,
Or the winepress of my vine?
A thousand sheep on a hill,
A thousand herds grazing there;
Not a one of them I own still,
Tho' the ownership I somehow bear.
A thousand chests of gold,
A thousand boxes of silver wares;
And all of them still, I behold,
Are temporarily under my cares.
A thousand lines unpenned,
A thousand notes to my name;
Yet all of them till the very end,
Are but a borrowed life and fame.
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