IV
THE greed that took us prisoner
First led our steps away from her;
For lust of gold we gave up life,
And sank heart-deep in worldly strife.
And when Success—belovèd name—
At last with faltering footsteps came,
The city’s rough, harsh imps of sound
And Competition’s crush and cheat
Were in her wreath securely bound;
Her fruits still savored of the street,
Its choking dust, its wearied feet,
Her poorest like her richest prize
Was rotted o’er with envious eyes,
And sickened with the human heat
Of hands that strove to clutch it fast,
And struggling gave it up at last.
Not so where nature summer-crowned
Makes fields and woods a pleasure-ground,
Sky-blest, wind-kissed, and circled round
With waters lapsing cool and sweet.