The poem
I think I'll buy a little field, Though scant am I of pelf, And hold the hope that it may yield A living for myself; For I have toiled ten thousand days With ledger and with pen, And I am sick of city ways And soured with city men.
So I will plant my little plot With lettuce, beans and peas; Potatoes too - oh quite a lot, An pear and apple trees. My carrots will be coral pink, My turnips ivory; And I'll forget my pen and ink, And office slavery.
My hut shall have a single room Monastically bare; A faggot fire for the winter gloom, A table and a chair. A Frugalist I call myself, My needs are oh so small; My luxury a classic shelf Of poets on the wall.
Here as I dream, how grey and cold The City seems to me; Another world of green and gold Incessantly I see. So I will fling my pen away, And learn a how to wield; A cashbook and a stool today . . . Soon, soon a Little Field.