In his gold and his wasted lands.
He hath counted his neighbors’ cattle
With the cold, gray eye of greed:
He hath marked for his own the fields of wheat
Where he never had sown the seed:
The vine-clad cot by the hillside,
Where the farmer’s children play,—
“This shall fit in my plan,” he said;
“What use for such as they?”
And so, in the dusk of evening,