  Though born a man, he lives a mole; In vain for him the seasons roll; Poor earth-worm; in a world of light, Still deeper digging into night. Indifferent to life and law, He knoweth neither love nor awe;— Askance he eyes the daisied sod, And turns a Ghetto face on God. With servile mind and sordid soul, He shall not miss the chosen goal; Though all the path with gold be paved, He cannot from himself be saved.
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