Classic Poem

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 haste,
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 sendg,
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! MORAL:
ADDED ON HIS DEATH-BED.
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.