To Poverty by Harrison Smith Morris

Come, link thine arm in mine, good Poverty,
Penniless yeoman of the tattered gear;
Let’s amble down the brazen world and steer
For ports where toil is aristocracy.
Utopia laughs not at our sackcloth. See!
Here’s fair Sir Lackland and right many a peer,
With doublets threadbare as our own full near,
Would vow us love and hospitality.

Our gold’s laid up in sunsets safe from thieves;
And all our current silver’s in the stars.
We’ve naught to lose save honest hearts, who steals
Shall get more treasure than he knows or feels.
Here’s sweetest roots from out our scrip, good sirs,
And waters clear, and couches in the leaves.

From: Morris, Harrison S., Madonna and Other Poems, 1894, J. B. Lippincott Company: Philadelphia and London, p. 172.
(https://archive.org/stream/madonnaotherpoem00morr#page/172/mode/2up

Date: 1894

By: Harrison Smith Morris (1856-1948)

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