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Rh Why should mankind, apart, turn from Nature to Art, and declare the exchange better-planned? I prefer to trust God for my living than plod for my bread at a master's hand. A man's higher being is knowing and seeing, not having and toiling for more; In the senses and soul is the joy of control, not in pride or luxurious store. Yet my needs are the same as the kingling's whose name is a terror to thousands: some bread, Some water and milk,—I can do without silk,—some wool, and a roof for my head. What more is possest that will stand the grim test of death's verdict? What riches remain To give joy at the last, all the vanities past?—Ay, ay, that's the word—they are vain And vexatious of spirit to all who inherit belief in the world and its ways. And so, old and alone, sitting here on a stone, I smile with the birds at the days."

And I thanked him, and went to my study, head bent, where I laid down my book on its shelf; And that day all the page that I read was my age, and my wants, and my joys, and myself.