XXVII
Enough
God gave a loaf to every bird,But just a crumb to me;I dare not eat it, though I starve,—My poignant luxuryTo own it, touch it, prove the featThat made the pellet mine,—Too happy in my sparrow chanceFor ampler coveting.
It might be famine all around,I could not miss an ear,Such plenty smiles upon my board,My garner shows so fair.I wonder how the rich may feel,—An Indiaman—an Earl?I deem that I with but a crumbAm sovereign of them all.