I

To build a house, with love for architect, Ranks first and foremost in the joys of life. And in a tiny cabin, shaped for two, The space for happiness is just as great As in a palace. What a world were this If each soul born received a plot of ground; A little plot, whereon a home might rise, And beauteous green things grow! We give the dead, The idle vagrant dead, the Potter’s Field; Yet to the living not one inch of soil. Nay, we take from them soil, and sun, and air, To fashion slums and hell-holes for the race. And to our poor we say, ‘Go starve and die As beggars die; so gain your heritage.’