Bewick Finzer

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.