The Rich Man's Son

To those who are the sons of rich men

There was a boy as young as day,
He was brought up in light,
The moon and the stars were his to play,
For him the secrets of the night.

And yet as the boy grew into a man,
One could slowly see,
His back hung low as if with weight,
And he lost his sprightly gait.

“What ails thee my son?” his father asked,
His voice plaintive yet tame,
To see his son so wretched without joy,
His poor heart could not take.

Oh father thou canst not know,
The voice that lies inside,
It questions the right to have such joy,
In this world of cruel tides.

.Where is that sun for the lowly thief,
Where are the birds gone,
Why the shade never cools his back,
The one who labours on.

What use of Plato and scientific thought,
When the plate a grain has not,
What use of song and art and dance,
When the landlord comes to call.

How well thou hast taught me father,
To make hay with what I have,
To hide from my brethren, the working man,
To snatch the food from his hands.

Belay I will what conscience I have,
And help the poor with my hands,
Lest I grow up and teach my son,
To bask with no task done.