Sighed a student in the motley crowd:
"'Poor and proud, poor and proud,'"
"I heard her whisper that aside.
O fatal fairness aping heaven
When earthly most! I'll not deride.
God knows that were all good gifts given
To me as lavishly as rain,
I'd bring them to her feet again."
"Here are the fools we use for tools,
Bending their passion ere it cools
To any need," the Cynic said;
"So, I will give him gold, and he
Shall sell me brain as it were bread.
His very soul I'll hold in fee
For baubles that shall buy the hand
Of the coldest woman in the land."
Spirit-sore
The Old Year cared to see no more;
While as he turned he heard a moan;
Frosty and keen was the wintry night,
Prone on the city's paving-stone
Unwatched, unwept, a piteous sight
Starved and dying a poor wretch lay,
Through the blast he heard him dying say:
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