Contentment

Happy the man that, when his day is done, Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret-- The battle he has fought may not be won-- The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet; Folding at last his hands upon his breast, Happy is he, if hoary and forespent, He sinks into the last, eternal rest, Breathing these only works: 'I am content.' But happier he, that, while his blood is warm, See hopes and friendships dead about him lie-- Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm, Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny; And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate, Girt only in the armor God hath meant For him who 'neath the buffetings of fate Can say to God and man: 'I am content.'