Worthless, the man who works - he knows not why,
Whom naught inspires to his puny plan,
Who seeming plays his part instinctively:
Soulless, and falsely designated "man."
Wicked, who works from wish of worldly gain, -
His soul surrendered to th'accurs'd lust
Of pleasure partial, briefly to remain,
Of treasure liable to moth and rust.
Foolish and vain is he whose motive - fame,
Ruled by desire of honor and renown;
And fondly courting Fortune's fickle Dame, -
To-day she smiles, to-morrow she will frown.
But virtuous, noble, prompted from above,
Preluding now the perfect life again,
Is he, whose only inspiration, love,
Love to his God and to his fellow-men.
For love is naught but God's own nature, given,
In partial measure, down to man to come;
The sole delight of earth, the key to heaven;
Of all the virtues, centre, source, and sum.