I’ve made my own Museum of / Happiness, which isn’t built of brick / or stone or wood…
In the trees above me
/ The blackbird sings
/ As I sit here at my table
/ With my books and my writing things.
In Chile now, cherries are dancing,
/ the dark, secretive girls are singing,
/ and in guitars, water is shining.
/ The sun is touching every…
Happy is the man who knows that little is more than enough.
/ He is deaf to the hindrance of plenty.
/ He herds,…