William H. Davies (1871–1940)

SING out, my Soul, thy songs of joy;

Such as a happy bird will sing

Beneath a Rainbow’s lovely arch

In early spring.

Think not of Death in thy young days;

—Why shouldst thou that grim tyrant fear?

And fear him not when thou art old,

And he is near.

Strive not for gold, for greedy fools

Measure themselves by poor men never;

Their standard, still being richer men,

Makes them poor ever.

Train up thy mind to feel content;

What matters then how low thy store?

What we enjoy, and not possess,

Makes rich or poor.

Fill’d with sweet thought, then happy I

Take not my state from others’ eyes;

What ’s in my mind—not on my flesh

Or theirs—I prize.

Sing, happy Soul, thy songs of joy;

Such as a Brook sings in the wood,

That all night has been strengthen’d by

Heaven’s purer flood.