IS it so small a thing       To have enjoy'd the sun,       To have lived light in the spring,       To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

      That we must feign a bliss       Of doubtful future date,       And while we dream on this       Lose all our present state, And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

      Not much, I know, you prize       What pleasures may be had,       Who look on life with eyes       Estranged, like mine, and sad: And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;

      Who 's loth to leave this life       Which to him little yields:       His hard-task'd sunburnt wife,       His often-labour'd fields; The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.

      But thou, because thou hear'st       Men scoff at Heaven and Fate;       Because the gods thou fear'st       Fail to make blest thy state, Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.

      I say, Fear not! life still       Leaves human effort scope.       But, since life teems with ill,       Nurse no extravagant hope. Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.