And, counting naught that comes to me my foe,
I change, if ’tis my whim, the winter snow
To blowing blossom: and by that same art
I fashion as I will Life’s weal and woe:
Singing of all I carry in my heart.
Let me go lame and lousy like a tramp
But feel the wind and know the moonlit sky!
What matter if the falling dew be damp—
Still is it dew! And well contented I
Among my dreams (in seeming poverty)