Happy the man that, when his day is done, <br />Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret-- <br />The battle he has fought may not be won-- <br />The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet; <br />Folding at last his hands upon his breast, <br />Happy is he, if hoary and forespent, <br />He sinks into the last, eternal rest, <br />Breathing these only works: 'I am content.' <br /> <br />But happier he, that, while his blood is warm, <br />See hopes and friendships dead about him lie-- <br />Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm, <br />Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny; <br />And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate, <br />Girt only in the armor God hath meant <br />For him who 'neath the buffetings of fate <br />Can say to God and man: 'I am content.'<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/contentment-32/
