Who toils for a pittance with little rest,
But should envy the freedom in this breast.
She's the child of nature; vice does not lure;
She's clothed upon with a life that's pure.
The wholesomeness of her atmosphere
Does more for man than his logic drear.
Who delves in books' philosophic lore,
Sees nature's problems—but little more.
'Tis God's own child who has eyes to see
What is closed to the eye of philosophy.