I’m not dead yet, nor alone—somebody
Delights in the vast majestic plain
With me—my friend the beggar lady—
And in mist, hunger, blizzard, rain.
I live calm and self-possessed,
In beautiful poverty, humble opulence.
These days and nights are blessed,
And sweet-voiced work is innocence.
Unfortunate is one who feels the chill
Of his own shadow, fears a dog’s bark, or succumbs
To the wind’s scythe—but unhappier still
Is one who, half-alive, begs the shadow for crumbs.