VII.
Oh, I have seen men, tall and fair,
Stoop down their manhood with disgust,
Stoop down God’s image to the dust,
To get a load of gold to bear;
Have seen men selling day by day
The glance of manhood that God gave:
To sell God’s image as a slave
Might sell some little pot of clay!
Behold! here in this green graveyard
A man with gold enough to fill
A coffin, as a miller’s till;
And yet his path is hard, so hard!
His feet keep sinking in the sand,
And now so near an opened grave!
He seems to hear the solemn wave
Of dread oblivion at hand.
The sands, they grumble so, it seems
As if he walks some shelving brink.
He tries to stop, he tries to think,
He tries to make believe he dreams:
Why, he is free to leave the land,
The silver moon is white as dawn;
Why, he has gold in either hand,
Has silver ways to walk upon.
And who should chide, or bid him stay?
Or taunt, or threat, or bid him fly?
The world ’s for sale, I hear men say,
And yet this man has gold to buy.
Buy what? Buy rest? He could not rest!
Buy gentle sleep? He could not sleep,
Though all these graves were wide and deep
As their wide mouths with the request.
Buy Love, buy faith, buy snow-white truth?
Buy moonlight, sunlight, present, past?
Buy but one brimful cup of youth
That calm souls drink of to the last?