Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/182

 Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain.

And I must work thro' months of toil, And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom, Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom.