Dead is he with wealth in pile
Unenjoyed, it is futile
The niggard miser thinks wealth is all
He hoards, gives not is born devil.
A burden he is to earth indeed
Who hoards without a worthy deed.
What legacy can he leave behind
Who is for approach too unkind.
What is the good of erores they hoard
To give and enjoy whose heart is hard.
Great wealth unused for oneself nor
To worthy men is but a slur.
Who loaths to help have-nots, his hold
Is like a spinster-belle grown old.
The idle wealth of unsought men
Is poison-fruit-tree amidst a town.
Others usurp the shining gold
In loveless, stingy, vicious hold.
The brief want of the rich benign
Is like rainclouds growing thin.
FUTILE WEALTH
