My garden is a beggar's pitch
That Heaven throws its coins upon;
And in the Summer I am rich,
And in the Winter all is gone;
Yet as the long days hurry by
I keep my pitch, content and free,
Where in a sweet profusion lie
Fair Marigolds and Honesty:
And oft I turn and count for fun
My largess from the night and noon—
The golden tokens of the sun,
The silver pennies of the moon!