The Spendthrift
HE died a poor man, so they say,
Few were the dollars stored away
By him while he lived, and yet
His memory I’ll not forget.
A spendthrift! True, but not for self
He scattered thus his hard-earned pelf;
Not that he might in splendor roam,
But for the ones he loved at home.
A spendthrift! That he was for those
Who, weeping, watched his eyelids close;
For them he toiled, for them he spent
His pittance and was well content.
The best in life to them he gave,
Denied them nothing just to save;
For those at home his coin he blew,
I would the world more spendthrifts knew.
Altre opere di Edgar Albert Guest...
