poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

 
All profits disappear: the gain
Of ease, the hoarded, secret sum;
And now grim digits of old pain
Return to litter up our home.

We hunt the cause of ruin, add,
Subtract, and put ourselves in pawn;
For all our scratching on the pad,
We cannot trace the error down.

What we are seeking is a fare
One way, a chance to be secure:
The lack that keeps us what we are,
The penny that usurps the poor.

Added: 16 Jan 2002 | Last Read: 9 Jan 2009 3:06 AM | Viewed: 4453 times

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