Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow,

But Evil Is Wrought By Want Of Thought, As Well As Want Of Heart!

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

And There Is Even A Happiness That Makes The Heart Afraid.

A Name, It Has More Than Nominal Worth, And Belongs To Good Or Bad Luck At Birth