Time was when his half million drew
       &nbsp The breath of six per cent;
But soon the worm of what-was-not
       &nbsp Fed hard on his content;
And something crumbled in his brain
       &nbsp When his half million went.

Time passed, and filled along with his
       &nbsp The place of many more;
Time came, and hardly one of us
       &nbsp Had credence to restore,
From what appeared one day, the man
       &nbsp Whom we had known before.

The broken voice, the withered neck,
       &nbsp The coat worn out with care,
The cleanliness of indigence,
       &nbsp The brilliance of despair,
The fond imponderable dreams
       &nbsp Of affluence,—all were there.

Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes,
       &nbsp Fares hard now in the race,
With heart and eye that have a task
       &nbsp When he looks in the face
Of one who might so easily
       &nbsp Have been in Finzer's place.

He comes unfailing for the loan
       &nbsp We give and then forget;
He comes, and probably for years
       &nbsp Will he be coming yet,—
Familiar as an old mistake,
       &nbsp And futile as regret.