And truly but a slender hoard
Its harvest brings for barn or board.
Yet tho a hundred fields are mine,
Fertile with olive, corn, and vine;
Tho autumn piles my garners high,
Still for that little field I sigh,
For, ah! methinks no other where
Is any field so good and fair.
Small tho it be, ’tis better far
Than all my fruitful vineyards are,