CONTENTMENT

Happy the man that, when his day is done,

Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret —

The battle he has fought may not be won —

The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet;

Folding at last his hands upon his breast,

Happy is he, if hoary and forespent,

He sinks into the last, eternal rest,

Breathing these only works: “I am content.”

But happier he, that, while his blood is warm,

See hopes and friendships dead about him lie —

Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm,

Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny;

And‘ mid it all, stands sturdy and elate,

Girt only in the armor God hath meant

For him who‘ neath the buffetings of fate

Can say to God and man: “I am content.”