He toiled and saved his earnings every day, But starved his mind, and grasped at common things; His prisoned soul ne'er struggled out of clay, His better nature never found its wings. He hoped to sit with Happiness at last, Mansioned, sufficient, when he would be old; But he was just a graveyard! and the past Left naught for him but a rude pile of gold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...APRIL by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE MYSTIC'S VISION by MATHILDE BLIND THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA'S FASTING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW A SOLDIER'S GRAVE by JOHN ALBEE CURIOUSLY EVANESCENT by EVA K. ANGLESBURG FLANDERS NOW by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN TO ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING by ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH BOTTA TO A MISSIONARY, WHO ATTENDED ... MEETING OF BIBLE SOCIETY by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |