And again and again, and again and again
He sought and he sought, but all in vain,
Till he must have looked for a year and a day
For the early worm, in the twilight gray.
At last in despair he gave up the search,
And was heard to remark, as he sat on his perch
By the side of his nest in the hollow tree,
“The thing is as plain as night to me—
Nothing can shake my conviction firm,
There’s no such thing as the early worm.”
A Dark Career
Call it misfortune, crime, or what
You will—his presence was a blot
Where all was bright and fair—
A blot that told its darksome tale
And left its mark a blighting trail
Behind him everywhere.
* * *
