The Drawing of the Lot

One comes with kind, capacious hold,

But through his fingers slips the gold;

He with the talons, his the hands

That rake up riches as the sands.

One fats as does the ox unbroke;

Never on his red neck the yoke.

The pale, stooped thing, with heart and brain,

On him the weight of toil and pain.

One longs, — she with the full warm breast,

But no babe's head does on it rest;

On some starved slant a fool thought fair

Love's boon is thrust, and suckled there.