Croesus from a hilltop scans his plains
And ponders what a walk at break of day,
On new cut grass, is worth: regale away
About the trappings bought with wealth, they're stains
Compared to nature's free delights; they're pains
In light of what the season gifts come May.
True, the strengths of gold may often play -
But aren't all sodden, equal, when the rains
Descend? My money can't oblige the leaves
To hang around come fall; a poor man suns
Himself as does a rich, no need for sheaves
Of cash. What dazzling gem outshines a breath
Of Gaia's freely-given air? - what runs
To worth for men a gasp away from death?
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