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.