by George Essex Evans (1863 - 1909)
Friend, you have wealth and power,
Men go and come at your call,
Yours are the whims of the hour
What have you done with it all?
I am only a poet
Fighting a bitter fight,
Fate will not even grant me
Leisure in which to write.
You said as your thin lips curled:
Money is better than bays.
Battered and bruised by the world!
I still have my golden days.
You have lost the power to enjoy,
You tire of each plaything new,
Mine is the heart of a boy;
Friend, I am richer than you!
About the Author
See our page on George Essex Evans. Includes a linked list of all his writing available on our website.
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