Poetry Archives

A mattock high he swung;
I watched him at his toil;
With never gulp of lung
He gashed the ruddy soil.
Thought I, I’d give my wealth
               To have his health.

With fortune I would part,
And privilege resign,
Could I but have his heart,
And he have mine . . .
Then suddenly I knew
               My wish was true.

Like him I swung: with awe
He marked my steady breath.
Then suddenly I saw
That he was sick to death.
My heart in him was frail
               And seemed to fail.

Said I: ‘Take back your heart
And I will bear with mine.
Poor lad! All wealth apart
’Tis murder I design,
Not all a Nabob’s wealth
               Is worth your health.’