For These
AN acre of land between the shore and the hills,Upon a ledge that shows my kingdoms three,The lovely visible earth and sky and sea,Where what the curlew needs not, the farmer tills:
A house that shall love me as I love it,Well-hedged, and honoured by a few ash-treesThat linnets, greenfinches, and goldfinchesShall often visit and make love in and flit:
A garden I need never go beyond,Broken but neat, whose sunflowers every oneAre fit to be the sign of the Rising Sun:A spring, a brook's bend, or at least a pond:
For these I ask not, but, neither too lateNor yet too early, for what men call content,And also that something may be sentTo be contented with, I ask of fate.
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