Morn after morn have I risen from bed
With the fear and the hope of its truth,
Only to find that the death of the Dead
Is bought at the dream-god’s booth.
PITY THE POOR.
I pity the poor for I myself am poor,
Though I wear starched cuffs and collars;
But the brainless poor in rags I pity far more,
For they’ve neither sense nor dollars.
I pity as much the hare-brained spendthrift wretch