How fair thou art, O little book Of scented Russia leather! With stitches fanciful and fine To hold you well together; But stitches strong are useless all, There is no strain upon thee; The great brogan of poverty Is very heavy on thee. What endless room is here for bills Of large denominations, With checks and bonds a goodly store -- Ah, vain imaginations! The hungriest pocket-book thou art That ever in a highway Was picked up by a well-fooled man And cast into a by-way. Consumption settled on thy form Till you cannot grow thinner; In vain you plead with open mouth Of me a greenback dinner. 'T is very sad thou couldst not stand The drain upon thy system; I never knew what dollars were United I wholly missed them. I'm safe to say that there's more cash Outside of thee than in thee; I'd stake thee on some risky bet, Nor care much who would win thee. I look at thee and nothing see, -- They say you can't see nothing; Yet here it's very palpable -- In sooth, not very soothing. Should some highwayman thee demand, I'd gladly give thee to him; 'T would lead him into suicide, Or monstrously undo him. Sad pocket-book! I feel for thee, But not as in days sunny; Henceforth the pocket of my vest Will carry all my money. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING 'IPHIGENIA IN AULIS' by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE LAND OF DREAMS by WILLIAM BLAKE THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE by JOSEPH BRENAN SPARKLING AND BRIGHT by CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN EDEN BOWER by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI ESTRANGEMENT by WILLIAM WATSON |