 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
MONEY
A SON of Adam dug beside the way.
"Why, Brother, do you dig?" I stopped to ask.
Standing at stoop and pausing in his task,
>From dreary eyes he wiped the sweat away.
"I work for money." "What is money, pray?"
"A foolish question, this you come to ask!"
Yet in that gray and worry-haunted mask
At hide-and-seek I saw my query play.
"Why, Brother, do you dig?" I stopped to ask.
Standing at stoop and pausing in his task,
>From dreary eyes he wiped the sweat away.
"I work for money." "What is money, pray?"
"A foolish question, this you come to ask!"
Yet in that gray and worry-haunted mask
At hide-and-seek I saw my query play.
"It is the graven symbol of your ache,"
I said, "—the minted meaning of your blood;
And he who works not, robs you when he buys!
You are the vassal of a thing you make!"
I left him staring hard upon the mud,
The glimmer of a portent in his eyes.
I said, "—the minted meaning of your blood;
And he who works not, robs you when he buys!
You are the vassal of a thing you make!"
I left him staring hard upon the mud,
The glimmer of a portent in his eyes.
| The Stranger at the Gate | |