This morning I woke from a quiet repose,

I first rub'd my eyes, and I next blew my nose;

With my stockings and shoes I then covered my toes,

And proceeded to put on the rest of my clothes.

This was finished in less than an hour, I suppose.

I employ'd myself next in repairing my hose.

'Twas a work of necessity, not what I chose;

Of my sock I'd much rather have knit twenty rows.

My work being done, I look'd through the windows,

And with pleasure beheld all the bucks and the does,

The cows and the bullocks, the wethers and ewes.

To the library each morning the family goes,

So I went with the rest, though I felt rather froze.

My flesh is much warmer, my blood freer flows,

When I work in the garden with rakes and with hoes.

And now I believe I must come to a close,

For I find I grow stupid e'en while I compose.

If I write any longer my verse will be prose.

Love, they say, is like a rose;

I'm sure 'tis like the wind that blows,

For not a human creature knows

How it comes or where it goes.

It is the cause of many woes:

It swells the eyes and reds the nose,

And very often changes those

Who once were friends to bitter foes. […]