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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
THE TOOL
The man of brains, of fair repute, and birth,Who loves high place above all else of earth;
Who loves it so, he'll go without the power
If he may hold the semblance but an hour;
Willing to be some sordid creature's tool
So he but seem a little while to rule;
On him even moral pigmies would look down;
Were prizes given for shame, he'd wear the crown.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |