WIDE o'er the barren plain the bleak wind flies, <br />Sweeps the high mountain's top, and with its breath <br />Swells the curl'd river o'er the plain beneath, <br />Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies. <br /> <br />The hardy PEASANT in his little cot, <br />Lights his small fire, his homely meal prepares; <br />No pamper'd luxury, no splendid cares <br />Invade the comforts of his humble lot. <br /> <br />Born to endure, he labours thro' the day, <br />And when the midnight storm o'er spreads the skies, <br />On a clean pallet peacefully he lies, <br />And sweetly sleeps the lonely hours away; <br />Till at the peep of dawn he wakes to find, <br />HEALTH in his veins, and RAPTURE IN HIS MIND.<br /><br />Mary Darby Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-the-peasant/
