Did they steal, and lie, and slaughter?
Did they steep their souls in shame?
Did they sell eternal virtues
Just to win a passing fame?
Did they give the gold of honour
For the tinsel of a name?
We are hurrying all together
Toward the silence and the night;
There is nothing worth the seeking
But the sun-kissed moral height—
There is nothing worth the doing
But the doing of the right.
THE SPUR
I asked the rock beside the road what joy existence lent.
It answered, ‘For a million years my heart has been content.’
I asked the truffle-seeking swine, as rooting by he went,
‘What is the keynote of your life?’ He grunted out, ‘Content.’
I asked a slave, who toiled and sung, just what his singing meant.
He plodded on his changeless way, and said, ‘I am content.’
I asked a plutocrat of greed, on what his thoughts were bent.
He chinked the silver in his purse, and said, ‘I am content.’
I asked the mighty forest tree from whence its force was sent.
Its thousand branches spoke as one, and said, ‘From discontent.’
I asked the message speeding on, by what great law was rent
God’s secret from the waves of space. It said, ‘From discontent.’
I asked the marble, where the works of God and man were blent,
What brought the statue from the block. It answered, ‘Discontent.’