Fool's Gold

SEE him there, cold and gray,

Watch him as he tries to play;

No, he does n't know the way.

He began to learn too late.

She's a grim old hag, is Fate,

For she let him have his pile,

Smiling to herself the while,

Knowing what the cost would be,

When he'd found the Golden Key.

Had the money hunger bad,

Mad for money, piggish mad.

Did n't let a joy divert him,

Did n't let a sorrow hurt him,

Let his friends and kin desert him,

While he planned and plugged and worried.

Nothing stopped him as he scurried,

On his quest for gold and power.

Every single wakeful hour,

With a money thought he'd dower.

All the while as he grew older,

And grew bolder, he grew colder.

And he thought that some day

He would take time to play,

But say—

He was wrong.

Life's a song.

In the spring

Youth can sing and can fling,

But joys wing,

When we're older,

Like birds when it's colder.

The roses were red as he went rushing by,

And cloud-woven tapestries hung in the sky,

And the clover was waving

'Neath honey bees slaving.

A bird over there

Rondelayed a soft air.

But the man could n't spare

Time for gathering flowers,

Or resting in bowers,

Or gazing at skies

That gladdened the eyes.

So he kept on and swept on

Through mean, sordid years.

Now he's up to his ears

In the choicest of stocks.

He owns endless blocks

Of houses and shops,

And the stream never stops

Pouring into his banks.

I suppose that he ranks

Pretty near to the top;

What I have won't sop

His ambition one tittle,

And yet with my little

I'm sure I'd not trade

With the bargain he made.

Just watch him to-day,

See him trying to play.

He's come back for spring skies,

But they're in a new guise.

Winter's here, all is gray.

The birds are away,

The meadows are brown,

The leaves lie aground,

And the gay brook that wound

With a swirling and whirling

Of waters is furling

Its bosom in ice.

And he has n't the price,

With all of his gold,

To buy what he sold;

He knows now the cost

Of the Springtime he lost,

Of the flowers he tossed

From his way,

And say

He'd pay

Any price if the day

Could be made not so gray—

He can't play.

By Herbert Kaufman