He toiled and saved his earnings every day, But starved his mind, and grasped at common things; His prisoned soul ne'er struggled out of clay, His better nature never found its wings. He hoped to sit with Happiness at last, Mansioned, sufficient, when he would be old; But he was just a graveyard! and the past Left naught for him but a rude pile of gold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HORACE TO LEUCONOE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE FOUNTAIN (1) by SARA TEASDALE AT FREDERICKSBURG [DECEMBER 13, 1862] by JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY TO THE GARDEN THE WORLD by WALT WHITMAN WEIGHTS AND MEASURES, BY OUR OWN TOM DALY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |