by John Vance Cheney
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.
Last updated January 14, 2019