It is like us to not know the cost
Of things which we touch, soever such;
To account for things requires loss
Wisdom is grief, or time's a thief--
Spoken glibly, but to empty air
Who can know? And herebelow
What is value to those who care?
All men are poor. This is the truth
Some forget, an epithet
Which like many be taken for sooth
Without knowing, as far as going
To discover what might make it so--
All words deceive, and relieve
Man from his duty-- who can know?
And in the end, to know his worth
He faces death, and as breath
Leaves, they say so leaves the curse--
But being poor, he moves no more
Unless, unless, another should rise
The man from earth, a second birth;
Else in grave he ever lies;
A harvest is thus; to value things
To lose the plant, the time to want
To see alone what planting brings
Soafter its kind, but old, refined--
And what is Spring? After that loss
Is reckoned as paid? It is like I said:
It is like us to not know the cost.