An acre of land between the shore and the hills,
Upon a ledge that shows my kingdoms three,
The lovely visible earth and sky and
Where what the curlew needs not, the farmer tills:
A house that shall love me as I love it,
Well-hedged, and honoured by a few ash
That linnets, greenfinches, and
Shall often visit and make love in and flit:
A garden I need never go beyond,
Broken but neat, whose sunflowers every
Are fit to be the sign of the Rising Sun:
A spring, a brook's bend, or at least a pond:
For these I ask not, but, neither too
Nor yet too early, for what men call content,
And also that something may be
To be contented with,
I ask of Fate.
