SO long and earnestly I've wrought, pursued the beastly grind, I've ringbones on my dome of thought, and spavins on my mind. The ghastly fear of evil times, of poverty when old, has kept me humping after dimes, for gold and still more gold. I have a package put away, where none can jar it loose; and sometimes, at the close of day, I wonder what's the use. When I have left this busy sphere, where only man is vile, some able lawyer will appear, and gather in my pile. Throughout this weary worldly jaunt I've skimped and saved and pared; I've done without the things I want, the things for which I cared. To add one large round dollar more to what I have in brine, I've made existence sad and sore, and what reward is mine? Why do I slave and moil and grind, why do I toil and spin? I'll have to leave my roll behind, for others to blow in. These words seem ever ringing loud, like some decree of doom: "There is no pocket in a shroud, no cashbox in a tomb." When I no longer am alive, but sleeping 'neath the sod, some learned attorney will arrive, and hook on to my wad. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FORCE OF LOVE by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES by HILDA DOOLITTLE WHEN THE KYE CAME HOME by JAMES HOGG IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 124 by ALFRED TENNYSON ON THE BIRTH OF A FRIEND'S ELDEST SON by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ON THE DEATH OF SMET-SMET, THE HIPPOTAMUS-GODDESS by RUPERT BROOKE |