“For me⁠—could envy enter in my sphere, Which of all human taint is clean and quit⁠— I well might harbor it When I behold the peasant at his toil. Guiding his team, untroubled, free from fear, He leaves his perfect furrow as he goes, And gives his field repose From thorns and tares and weeds that vex the soil: Thereto he labors, and without turmoil Entrusts his work to God, content if so Such guerdon from it grow That in that year his family shall live: Nor care nor thought to other things will give.