From my own kind I only learn
   How foolish comfort is;
To gather things that happy minds
   Should neither crave nor miss:
Fine brackets to adorn my walls,
   Whose tales are quickly told;
And copper candlesticks or brass,
   Which soon must leave me cold.

From my own kind I only learn
   That comfort breeds more care;
But when I watch our smaller lives,
   There's plainness everywhere:
That little bird is well content,
   When he no more can sing,
To close his eyes and tuck his head
   Beneath his own soft wing.