Classic Poem

The gold that with the sunlight lies
In bursting heaps at dawn,
The silver spilling from the skies
At night to walk upon,
The diamonds gleaming in the dew
He never saw, he never knew.

He got some gold, dug from the mud,
Some silver, crushed from stones;
But the gold was red with dead men's blood,
The silver black with groans;
And when he died he moaned aloud
“They'll make no pocket in my shroud.”