And a joy to the limbs is the racking pain,
If the gold is there.
And they say, if you fail, in your dying day
All the tears, all the troubles, are wiped away
By the fever-thought of your shattered mind
That a cruel world has at last grown kind;
That your hands o’errun with the clinking gold,
With nuggets of weight and of worth untold,
And your vacant eyes
Gloat o’er the riches of Paradise!