A Cynic's Song. br br SOME men strut proudly, all purple and gold, br Hiding queer deeds 'neath a cloak of good fame; br I creep along, braving hunger and cold, br To keep my heart stainless as well as my name; br So, so, where is the good of it? br br Some clothe bare Truth in fine garments of words, br Fetter her free limbs with cumbersome state: br With me, let me sit at the lordliest boards, br 'I love' means I love, and 'I hate' means I hate, br But, but, where is the good of it? br br Some have rich dainties and costly attire, br Guests fluttering round them and duns at the door: br I crouch alone at my plain board and fire, br Enjoy what I pay for and scorn to have more. br Yet, yet, where is the good of it? br br Some gather round them a phalanx of friends, br Scattering affection like coin in a crowd; br I keep my heart for the few that heaven sends, br Where they'll find their names writ when I lie in my shroud. br Still, still, where is the good of it? br br Some toy with love, lightly come, lightly go, br A blithe game at hearts, little worth, little cost:-- br I staked my whole soul on one desperate throw, br A life 'gainst an hour's sport. We played' and I--lost br Ha, ha, such was the good of it! br br Moral: Added On His Death-Bed br br TURN the Past's mirror backward. Its shadows removed, br The dim confused mass becomes softened, sublime: br I have worked--I have felt--I have lived--I have loved, br And each was a step towards the goal I now climb: br Thou, God, Thou sawest the good of it.