_Introverse Retrospection_

’Mongst life’s sunny highlands I have strayed, Shunning Mammon’s vale of shade; And while wandering I’ve been pondering, And I feel, As onward toward the tomb I steal, That all our worldly toys, and troubles, are unreal. Riches is a doubtful chattel, Titles merely childish prattle; Sorrow is illogical, demoniacal dreaming. Joy and Hope alone are real--death is only but in seeming. For gladness, then--for better life we ever should be scheming. Fame holds forth for us a false, illusionary flower. Build, Folly! Build thy tower! Canst thou evade the inevitable hour? Toil, Pharoah, toil! Thy doom To build a pyramid--thy tomb!