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 hate,

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 sends,

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.