IS it so small a thing
 To have enjoy'd the sun,
 To have lived light in the spring,
 To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
 To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

 That we must feign a bliss
 Of doubtful future date,
 And while we dream on this
 Lose all our present state,
 And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

 Not much, I know, you prize
 What pleasures may be had,
 Who look on life with eyes
 Estranged, like mine, and sad:
 And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;

 Who 's loth to leave this life
 Which to him little yields:
 His hard-task'd sunburnt wife,
 His often-labour'd fields;
 The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.
 
 But thou, because thou hear'st
 Men scoff at Heaven and Fate;
 Because the gods thou fear'st
 Fail to make blest thy state,
 Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.
 
 I say, Fear not! life still
 Leaves human effort scope.
 But, since life teems with ill,
 Nurse no extravagant hope.
 Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.