Beholding now thy form and face—
Master work of Herera's hands,
Done a milennium after thy ascent,
A worshipful face toward the Holy Father's,
With quill in thy skillful hand,
"The City of God"[1] before thee,
My soul astir doth soar
Toward thine and His.
Oft have I gazed and gloried,
Imaging thy topless, hallowed heights,
From deepest, darkest depths—
I too may rise; I will, O God, I will!
O THAT INCOME TAX!
I struggled with mine till the midnight hour;
My head was that of a fool;
My losses and gains, they're beyond my power,
And never the like was, in school.
That minus sign was ever my foe
From earliest years until now;
My modest income, and varied out-go—
O they must be figured somehow!
I'll tell you the truth, in the fear of the Lord,
I worried and went "sick abed;"
Six pages of puzzles and all a sworn word—
"O where," I sighed, "is my head?"
"If married," or "single"—I failed to know:
Nor dependent children could tell;
For never my mind received such a blow,
From such unexpected hell.
I always have cherished my Uncle Sam,
And thought he was oftenest right;
But flooded I was, nor a single dam
To check my downward flight.
Exhausted I slept, nor just or unjust,
Resolving the next day to seek aid;
For when I awoke 'twas still, "you must
Or penalty dire be paid."
To the revenue clerk I took me straight,
And behold, as I looked, I heard
A lot of fond fools at Uncle Sam's gate,
Despairing like a caged bird.
The officer smiled, and I smiled out loud,
For misery loves company;
And the smiles were like beams that broke the cloud
Of impending, rank perjury.
- ↑ The title of one of his works.
