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The Witch
Toil, and grow rich,
What's that but to lie
With a foul witch
And after, drained dry,
To be brought
To the chamber where
Lies one long sought
With despair.
Poemas sobre el tema: wealth
Poemas sobre el tema «wealth» en Poets.by.
Lifestyles of the rich and famous
the fortunate lovers lay as empty
as a castle in a box
who he was she was
a pretty snare and hum
which wonder at nothing
Collector
her extravagant
collection of antiquities—
married to a bastard
The gospel of wealth
O tell me to come, leave
the key of the chest
with the surgeon.
Live plentifully and love
good things. Let the virginal
thorn pierce the rose.
Streets paved in gold
sober graves grow up
into desires
to look still
to leave a great family
among the wrong names
the riven street is rich
in other men’s gold
Two opposites
Faint music,
In the distance.
Drawing closer,
To my existence.
A worthless creation,
Cast away.
Returning now,
Revenge at bay.
Velvet curtains,
Silk sheets,
A life of riches,
And luxury.
Compared to these,
Pitiful beings.
Yet no one around,
To so much as see us.
Epidemic
Born with rights,
With privileges,
With money,
With connections,
Following in daddy’s footsteps,
Career decided at birth,
To take over the company,
To expand the wealth,
A maid to clean the house,
A cook to serve meals,
As you sit with a cigar in your mouth,
Not having to worry about anything,
Seven cars isn’t enough,
Three houses is too few,
Countless vacation days taken for granted,
As others are hard at work for you,
In Every Daisy in the Field
In every daisy in the field
Full thirty morals are concealed,
And though but one of them be mine,
And I forget the twenty-nine,
Yet am I better off by far
Than rich men and their butlers are,
Who ever have of morals none,
While happy I at least have one.
John Hancock Otis
As to democracy, fellow citizens,
Are you not prepared to admit
That I, who inherited riches and was to the manor born,
Was second to none in Spoon River
In my devotion to the cause of Liberty?
While my contemporary, Anthony Findlay,
Born in a shanty and beginning life
As a water carrier to the section hands,
Then becoming a section hand when he was grown,
Afterwards foreman of the gang, until he rose
To the superintendency of the railroad,
Living in Chicago,
Was a veritable slave driver,
Grinding the faces of labor,
And a bitter enemy of democracy.
And I say to you, Spoon River,
Sonnet 29: When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,-- and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
The successful man has thrust himself
The successful man has thrust himself
Through the water of the years,
Reeking wet with mistakes --
Bloody mistakes;
Slimed with victories over the lesser,
A figure thankful on the shore of money.
Then, with the bones of fools
He buys silken banners
Limned with his triumphant face;
With the skins of wise men
He buys the trivial bows of all.
Flesh painted with marrow
Contributes a coverlet,
A coverlet for his contented slumber.
In guiltless ignorance, in ignorant guilt,
He delivered his secrets to the riven multitude.
Ode to the Goddess Ceres
Dear Goddess of Corn, whom the ancients we know,
(Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)
Adorn'd with somniferous poppies, to show,
Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.
Behold in his best, shooting-jacket, before thee,
An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches,
Great Queen of the Mark-lane (if the thing doesn't bore thee),
Thou'lt read o'er the last of his -- never-last speeches.
Ah! Ceres, thou know'st not the slander and scorn
Now heap'd upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted;
Improving on Hunt, 'tis no longer the Corn,
'Tis the growers of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.
In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us --
Reviewers, economists - fellows, no doubt,