He stands beside a swift revolving wheel Giving the substance for each spin, Waiting its belch of gold. The polished chip Of red, Has bled A mental drip, Leaving him blanched and old With ardent confidence grown thin. Yet one more silver disk is left to seal Roulette's betrayal, or perhaps to feel -- The pulse of loyal discipline When lottery grows cold In fellowship. The dread Has spread His final grip, And luck will not unfold But seeks another offering. He stands beside a swift revolving wheel. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STORY OF THE END OF THE STORY by JAMES GALVIN O SOUTHLAND! by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON CRITIC AND POET by EMMA LAZARUS IN WALKED BUD WITH A PALETTE by CLARENCE MAJOR WORDS INTO WORDS WON'T GO by CLARENCE MAJOR WHEN I WAS A BIRD by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DOMESDAY BOOK: CHARLES WARREN, THE SHERIFF by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |