We pitied him because <br />He lived alone; <br />His tiny cottage was <br />His only own. <br />His little garden had <br />A wall around; <br />Yet never was so glad <br />A bit of ground. <br /> <br />It seemed to fair rejoice <br />With flowers and fruit; <br />With blooms it found a voice <br />When ours was muts. <br />It smiled without a pause <br />In gracious glow: <br />I think it was because <br />He loved it so. <br /> <br />He had no news to read, <br />No rent to pay; <br />His vegetable need <br />He plucked each day. <br />His grateful garden gave <br />Him ample fare; <br />He lived without a crave, <br />Without a care. <br /> <br />His bread and milk and tea <br />Were all he bought; <br />To us he seemed to be <br />A sorry lot . . . <br />But when we're dead and gone, <br />With all our fuss, <br />I guess he'll carry on, <br />And laugh at us.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rich-poor-man/
