I know of misers meaner than are those

Who lay awake at night to guard their treasure,

Which is in their possession only dust,

A sordid, useless heap of gilded dust

That might have given peace and bread to many.

The misers whom I mean are fair to see,

Delightful to converse with and to kiss;

They fascinate us with their wondrous eyes

As serpents fascinate the little birds.

They draw us closer to them, ever closer,

Then suddenly like serpents they coil up

And put beyond our grasp their queenly treasures,

Alas! in their possession to remain,

But useless, vain and perishable things

That might have given ecstasy to many.