When musing near a quiet stream,
  Of how true, happy minds are rare;
How some men mourn their fleeting days,
  And still unhappy thoughts they bear;
How others fear the loss of wealth,
  Though much they have above their share;
While some men strive in vain for fame,
  Till pale and lean, and white their hair:
'Poor fools,' thought I, amazed at this -
  'Why should true happy minds be rare?
If on these things we set no price,
  Where is their power to make us care?
Such cares, invented by ourselves,
  Have no wise substance anywhere.'