The poem
No door has my house,
No house has my door; And in and out ever
I carry my store.
No grate has my kitchen,
No kitchen my grate; Yet roasts it and boils it
Both early and late.
My bed has no trestles,
My trestles no bed; Yet merrier moments
No mortal e'er led.
My cellar is lofty,
My barn is full deep, From top to the bottom,--
There lie I and sleep.
And soon as I waken,
All moves on its race; My place has no fixture,
My fixture no place.
1827.*