Happy were he could finish forth his fate
In some unhaunted desert, where, obscure
From all society, from love and hate
Of worldly folk; then might he sleep secure;
Then wake again, and ever give God praise,
Content with hip, with haws, and bramble-berry;
In contemplation passing all his days,
And change of holy thoughts to make him merry;
Who, when he dies, his tomb might be a bush,
Where harmless Robin dwells with gentle thrush.