Bewick Finzer
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ime was when his half million drewThe breath of six per cent;But soon the worm of what-was-notFed hard on his content;And something crumbled in his brainWhen his half million went. Time passed, and filled along with hisThe place of many more;Time came, and hardly one of usHad credence to restore,From what appeared one day, the manWhom we had known before. The broken voice, the withered neck,The coat worn out with care,The cleanliness of indigence,The brilliance of despair,The fond imponderable dreamsOf affluence,--all were there. Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes,Fares hard now in the race,With heart and eye that have a taskWhen he looks in the faceOf one who might so easilyHave been in Finzer's place. He comes unfailing for the loanWe give and then forget;He comes, and probably for yearsWill he be coming yet,--Familiar as an old mistake,And futile as regret.
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