You only make me cry: 'Honour is but smoke, glory is but glory, and money is only money!' I ask you, in no craven spirit, is money the only thing for a man to seek who feels in his heart the least spark of poetry?
In my town, where everyone works, leave me as I am.

Every summer, happier than a king, I lay up my small provision for the winter, and then I sing like a goldfinch under the shade of a poplar or an ash-tree, only too happy to grow grey in the land which gave me birth.

One hears in summer the pleasant zigo, ziou, ziou, of the nimble grasshopper, or the young sparrow pluming his wings to make himself ready for flight, he knows not whither; but the wise man acts not so.

I remain here in my home.
Everything suits me--earth, sky, air--all that is necessary for my comfort.

To sing of joyous poverty one must be joyful and poor.