I wonder if the poppy shows
The slightest envy of the rose?
Or if the pansy wastes its time
Regretting that it cannot climb?
Do blossoms of a yellow hue
Complain because they are not blue?
Do birds which God designed to sing
Envy the wild ducks’ fleeter wing?
And does the sparrow sadly mourn
Because he was not goldfinch born?
I cannot say, but fancy not.
Each seems contented with his lot.
‘Tis only man who thinks that he
Some other man would rather be.
— Edgar A. Guest