The Man Against the Sky: A Book of Poems

Bewick Finzer

     Time was when his half million drew
      The breath of six per cent;
     But soon the worm of what-was-not
      Fed hard on his content;
     And something crumbled in his brain
      When his half million went.

     Time passed, and filled along with his
      The place of many more;
     Time came, and hardly one of us
      Had credence to restore,
     From what appeared one day, the man
      Whom we had known before.

     The broken voice, the withered neck,
      The coat worn out with care,
     The cleanliness of indigence,
      The brilliance of despair,
     The fond imponderable dreams
      Of affluence,—all were there.

     Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes,
      Fares hard now in the race,
     With heart and eye that have a task
      When he looks in the face
     Of one who might so easily
      Have been in Finzer's place.

     He comes unfailing for the loan
      We give and then forget;
     He comes, and probably for years
      Will he be coming yet,—
     Familiar as an old mistake,
      And futile as regret.