I’m very poor—this slender stone

Marks all the narrow field I own; 35

Yet, patient husbandman, I till,

With faith and prayers, that precious hill,

Sow it with penitential pains,

And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;

Content if, after all, the spot 40

Yield barely one forget-me-not—

Whether or figs or thistles make

My crop, content for Charlie’s sake.