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