INTROVERSE RETROSPECTION
’Mongst life’s sunny highlands I have strayed,
Shunning Mammon’s vale of shade;
And while wandering I’ve been pondering,
And I feel,
As onward toward the tomb I steal,
That all our worldly toys, and troubles, are unreal.
Riches is a doubtful chattel,
Titles merely childish prattle;
Sorrow is illogical, demoniacal dreaming.
Joy and Hope alone are real—death is only but in seeming.
For gladness, then—for better life we ever should be scheming.
Fame holds forth for us a false, illusionary flower.
Build, Folly! Build thy tower!
Canst thou evade the inevitable hour?
Toil, Pharoah, toil! Thy doom
To build a pyramid—thy tomb!