Thou’lt find therein true riches, with contentment, too.
Be patient with our poverty, and banish grief;
For poverty’s a crown bestowed by our great Chief.
Put off sour looks and see, how many thousand souls,
Through sweet contentment are as happy as the fowls.130
See other thousands, also, drinking dregs of grief:
It permeates their being, as sugar scents roseleaf.”
“Alas! Thou wast a treasure valued by my heart!
I loved to pour my soul forth in thy ears apart!
A kind of milk is speech; its teat the soul,—or gland.