Poem by Lewis Morris

* * *

WHEN I am dead and turned to dust,
Let men say what they will, I care not aught;
Let them say I was careless, indolent,
Wasted the precious hours in dreaming thought,
Did not the good I might have done, but spent
My soul upon myself, sometimes let rise
Thick mists of earth betwixt me and the skies:
What must be must.

But not that I betrayed a trust;
Broke some girl's heart, and left her to her shame;
Sneered young souls out of faith; rose by deceit;
Lifted: by credulous mobs to wealth and fame;
Waxed fat while good men waned, by lie and cheat;
Cringed to the strong; oppressed the poor and weak:
When men say this, may some find voice to speak,
Though I am dust. 

1. Marching
2. At an Almshouse
3. Dear Little Hand
4. Caged
5. Waking

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