Classic Poem

If I could find three words to say
— My fill of hatred, I believe
The affrighted earth would roll away
— And leave me here alone to live.

They had some little gift to give,
— Some rank or ribbon to bestow.
God knows, I asked not to receive, —
— They teased me, held me up for show.

But, as I think, it 's blow for blow
— Before the throne of righteous Time.
I have them yet, tho' right be slow
— And wrath needs age to grow sublime.

Then, when the testament of earth
— Names one or other of us heir,
I shall grow hideous with mirth,
— Curse them, and pluck them by the hair.