Posts Tagged ‘Wealth’

Good-bye, proud world! I’m going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I’m not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I’ve been tossed like the driven foam;
But now, proud world! I’m going home.  

Good-bye to Flattery’s fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth’s averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I’m going home.  

I am going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone, —
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird’s roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.  

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet? 




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This paper before me is worth more than gold,
Than all of the stocks that are bought and are sold.
It is not a map where an X marks the treasure
Nor is it a ticket to life’s greatest pleasure.
It is not a sketch by Picasso, van Gogh,
Nor numbers that won the world’s richest Lotto.
I have that which gives me more than the world’s wealth:
My doctor just gave me a clean bill of health.


photo by Marcelo Mokrejs at


© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.


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He’d lost some weight; his skin stuck to his skull
As plastic wrap will fit each hollow place,
And shape itself ’round all that’s sharp or dull.
His bone was now his hair, and cheek, and face.

My presence did not wake him from a nap.
I touched him, though, since consciousness I sought,
And he, still fresh within that thinnest wrap,
Was crisp like lettuce in his speech and thought.

His packaging I did not sorrow o’er;
Though frail as butterflies, he had his health.
Instead, I left, exulting all the more
Since he was in his mind and thus his wealth.


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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We have fed you all for a thousand years,
And you hail us still unfed,
Though there’s never a dollar of all your wealth
But marks the workers’ dead.
We have yielded our best to give you rest,
And you lie on crimson wool;
For if blood be the price of all your wealth
Good God, we ha’ paid in full! 

There’s never a mine blown skyward now
But we’re buried alive for you;
There’s never a wreck drifts shoreward now
But we are its ghastly crew:
Go reckon our dead by the forges red,
And the factories where we spin.
If blood be the price of your cursed wealth
Good God, we ha’ paid it in! 

We have fed you all for a thousand years,
For that was our doom, you know,
From the days when you chained us in your fields
To the strike of a week ago.
You ha’ eaten our lives and our babes and wives,
And we’re told it’s your legal share;
But if blood be the price of your lawful wealth,
Good God, we ha’ bought it fair.


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If all we hold and all we touch
Determines rich or poor,
Then those who live in little huts
Are sore in need, for sure.

If pedestals and public praise
Are measures of a man,
He’s poor when fickle turn away,
And he’s an also-ran.

If men are rich by length of days,
Then newborn babes are broke,
As well as those in early days
Felled by Grim Reaper’s stroke.

But if there is a something else
That all can have or not,
A something that’s the greatest pearl,
Then that’s man’s Camelot.

Then, fame and fortune fade away.
For, lost is their allure.
Perhaps the one in hut is rich;
The one in palace, poor.


photo by Stella Bogdanic at


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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