Contentment
Oliver Wendell Holmes’ poem “Contentment” was first published in 1858 in “The Atlantic Monthly” magazine, as part of his series titled “The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table”, which featured his essays, poems, and aphorisms.
Oliver Wendell Holmes was born on 29 August 1809 in Cambridge, Massachusetts, US, and he died on 7 October 1894 in Boston, Massachusetts, US, at the age of 85.A physician, poet, and polymath, Holmes was among a group known as the fireside poets, and he was acclaimed as one of the best writers of the day. Counting Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow as his friends, he was a major influence on the literary world of the 19th century, especially in and around his native Boston.
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Errata:
- At 3:23: “…Nor long for…”
“Man wants but little here below”
Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,) That I may call my own; — And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.
Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten; — If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen! I always thought cold victual nice; — My choice would be vanilla-ice.
I care not much for gold or land; — Give me a mortgage here and there, — Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share, — I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend.
Honors are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names; I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, — But only near St. James; I’m very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator’s chair.
Jewels are baubles; ’t is a sin To care for such unfruitful things; — One good-sized diamond in a pin, — Some, not so large, in rings, — A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me; — I laugh at show.
My dame should dress in cheap attire; (Good, heavy silks are never dear;) — I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere, — Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.
I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait — two forty-five — Suits me; I do not care; — Perhaps, for just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt.
Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four, — I love so much their style and tone, One Turner, and no more, (A landscape, — foreground golden dirt, — The sunshine painted with a squirt.)
Of books but few, — some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor; — Some little luxury there Of red morocco’s gilded gleam And vellum rich as country cream.
Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, Which others often show for pride, I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride; — One Stradivarius, I confess, Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.
Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; — Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But all must be of buhl? Give grasping pomp its double share, — I ask but one recumbent chair.
Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas’ golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much, — Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!