There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him, And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; He's a man who won't fit in.

Happy the man, whose wish and care, A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find; Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone, Tell where I lie.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass,
how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?