Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

— Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus

Let not the roses lie
Too thickly tangled round my tomb,
Lest fleecy clouds that skim the summer sky,
Flinging their faint soft shadows, pass it by,
And know not over whom.

And let not footsteps come
Too frequent round that nook of rest;
Should I-who knoweth?-not be deaf, though dumb,
Bird’s idle pipe, or bee’s laborious hum,
Would suit me, listening, best.

And, pray you, do not hew
Words to provoke a smile or sneer;
But only carve-at least if they be true-
These simple words, or some such, and as few,
“He whom we loved lies here.”

And if you only could
Find out some quite sequestered slope
That, girt behind with undeciduous wood,
In front o’erlooks the ocean-then I should
Die with a calmer hope.

And if you will but so
This last request of mine fulfil,
I rest your debtor for the final throw
And if I can but help you where I go,
Be sure, fond friends, I will.

— Alfred Austin, A Last Request

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life’s decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.

— Anna Akhmatova, I Taught Myself to Live Simply

 We couldn't sit and study for the law;
 The stagnation of a bank we couldn't stand;
For our riot blood was surging, and we didn't need much urging
 To excitements and excesses that are banned.
So we took to wine and drink and other things,
 And the devil in us struggled to be free;
Till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path,
 And they paid our debts and packed us o'er the sea.
Oh, they shook us off and shipped us o'er the foam,
To the larger lands that lure a man to roam;
 And we took the chance they gave
 Of a far and foreign grave,
And we bade good-by for evermore to home.
And some of us are climbing on the peak,
 And some of us are camping on the plain;
By pine and palm you'll find us, with never claim to bind us,
 By track and trail you'll meet us once again.
We are the fated serfs to freedom -- sky and sea;
 We have failed where slummy cities overflow;
But the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth,
 And we go into the dark as fighters go.
Yes, we go into the night as brave men go,
Though our faces they be often streaked with woe;
 Yet we're hard as cats to kill,
 And our hearts are reckless still,
And we've danced with death a dozen times or so.
And you'll find us in Alaska after gold,
 And you'll find us herding cattle in the South.
We like strong drink and fun, and, when the race is run,
 We often die with curses in our mouth.
We are wild as colts unbroke, but never mean.
 Of our sins we've shoulders broad to bear the blame;
But we'll never stay in town and we'll never settle down,
 And we'll never have an object or an aim.
No, there's that in us that time can never tame;
And life will always seem a careless game;
 And they'd better far forget --
 Those who say they love us yet --
Forget, blot out with bitterness our name.

-- Robert William Service, The Rhyme of the Restless Ones

He had driven half the night
From far down San Joaquin
Through Mariposa, up the
Dangerous Mountain roads,
And pulled in at eight a.m.
With his big truckload of hay
        behind the barn.
With winch and ropes and hooks
We stacked the bales up clean
To splintery redwood rafters
High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
Itch of haydust in the 
        sweaty shirt and shoes.
At lunchtime under Black oak
Out in the hot corral,
---The old mare nosing lunchpails,
Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds---
“I’m sixty-eight” he said,
“I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
I thought, that day I started,
I sure would hate to do this all my life.
And dammit, that’s just what
I’ve gone and done.”

-- Gary Snyder, Hay for the Horses