LIFE is too bitter
    Strife too strong;
Lackaday! lackaday!
    Dead is poor Song.

There in the mart

    Of the thronging, teeming;
Dead in the dust,
    His gold locks gleaming.

Killed in the fray,
    With his glad heart broken;

Never a sigh for him,
    Never a token

That the ill world cared;
    While with clamour and wrong
She lifts the brute victors

    Of Mammon along.

Dead in the dust,
    With never a care for him;
Save some day the green wreath
    That the world’s heart will wear for him.