The Shut-in 
She lives a prisoner within
The four bare walls of her poor room.
In the bright world she walks no more,
Yet cheerfully accepts her doom.
And holds that Life is very sweet,
As eagerly she looks and sees
The golden sunlight daily creep
Into her room, and with it weaves
Fantastic dreams of rosy hue;
Delightful things — in which she sees
The sparkling earth bedecked with dew —
Green hills and vales and stately trees.
She lives a prisoner — and yet,
She gets more out of life than we
Who walk bowed down with care — and fret
For things we are too blind to see.