And this you call work is carefree existence-- Catching ere it's flown What music has privately hinted And jestingly call it my own And using another's blithe scherzo For lines far too languid to run To swear your poor heart is lamenting In fields that smile back at the sun And later, when pinewoods play trappist Doing what bold eavesdroppers dare While the fog's impalpable curtain Hangs vaguely, as smoke on the air Not feeling one qualm of conscience I take things from left and right Life is sly, but I take something from it And all from the stillness of night