Edwin Arlington Robinson — Bewick Finzer

Time was when his half million drew        &nbsp The breath of six per cent; But soon the worm of what-was-not        &nbsp Fed hard on his content; And something crumbled in his brain        &nbsp When his half million went. Time passed, and filled along with his        &nbsp The place of many more; Time came, and hardly one of us        &nbsp Had credence to restore, From what appeared one day, the man        &nbsp Whom we had known before. The broken voice, the withered neck,        &nbsp The coat worn out with care, The cleanliness of indigence,        &nbsp The brilliance of despair, The fond imponderable dreams        &nbsp Of affluence,—all were there. Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes,        &nbsp Fares hard now in the race, With heart and eye that have a task        &nbsp When he looks in the face Of one who might so easily        &nbsp Have been in Finzer's place. He comes unfailing for the loan        &nbsp We give and then forget; He comes, and probably for years        &nbsp Will he be coming yet,— Familiar as an old mistake,        &nbsp And futile as regret.