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THE GOOD OF IT.
A Cynic’s Song.
- SOME men strut proudly, all purple and gold,
- Hiding queer deeds ’neath a cloak of good fame;
- I creep along, braving hunger and cold,
- To keep my heart stainless as well as my name;
- So, so, where is the good of it?
- Some clothe bare Truth in fine garments of words,
- Fetter her free limbs with cumbersome state:
- With me, let me sit at the lordliest boards,
- “I love” means I love, and “I hate” means I hate,
- But, but, where is the good of it?
- Some have rich dainties and costly attire,
- Guests fluttering round them and duns at the door:
- I crouch alone at my plain board and fire,
- Enjoy what I pay for and scorn to have more.
- Yet, yet, where is the good of it?
- Some gather round them a phalanx of friends,
- Scattering affection like coin in a crowd;
- I keep my heart for the few that heaven sends,
- Where they’ll find their names writ when I lie in my shroud.
- Still, still, where is the good of it?
- Some toy with love, lightly come, lightly go,
- A blithe game at hearts, little worth, little cost:—
- I staked my whole soul on one desperate throw,
- A life ’gainst an hour’s sport. We played’ and I—lost
- Ha, ha, such was the good of it!
- TURN the Past’s mirror backward. Its shadows removed,
- The dim confused mass becomes softened, sublime:
- I have worked—I have felt—I have lived—I have loved,
- And each was a step towards the goal I now climb:
- Thou, God, Thou sawest the good of it.
MORAL: ADDED ON HIS DEATH‐BED.
