How fair thou art, O little book Of scented Russia leather! With stitches fanciful and fine To hold you well together; But stitches strong are useless all, There is no strain upon thee; The great brogan of poverty Is very heavy on thee. What endless room is here for bills Of large denominations, With checks and bonds a goodly store -- Ah, vain imaginations! The hungriest pocket-book thou art That ever in a highway Was picked up by a well-fooled man And cast into a by-way. Consumption settled on thy form Till you cannot grow thinner; In vain you plead with open mouth Of me a greenback dinner. 'T is very sad thou couldst not stand The drain upon thy system; I never knew what dollars were United I wholly missed them. I'm safe to say that there's more cash Outside of thee than in thee; I'd stake thee on some risky bet, Nor care much who would win thee. I look at thee and nothing see, -- They say you can't see nothing; Yet here it's very palpable -- In sooth, not very soothing. Should some highwayman thee demand, I'd gladly give thee to him; 'T would lead him into suicide, Or monstrously undo him. Sad pocket-book! I feel for thee, But not as in days sunny; Henceforth the pocket of my vest Will carry all my money. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY by SIDNEY LANIER ADELAIDE AND JOHN WILKES BOOTH by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ELEGY: THE GHOST WHOSE LIPS WERE WARM; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL ADAM AND HIS FATHER by KAREN SWENSON |