Away from the rustle of waving trees,
Alone did the miser dwell;
Around his wrinkled and careworn brow
Hung wild his hoary hair,
And the spectre look of death e'en now,
And the furrows deep of the Ruler's plow,
Sat grim on his temples there.
He grasps the gold with his fingers cold,
And counts it o'er again,
And he envies the snuggling beam of light