Poems (Stephens)/Self

by Eliza Jane Stephens

SELF.

He turned aside from aught of pain,
 Nor lent a listening ear to grief,
In old or young such heartlessness
 Was strange, almost beyond belief.

He gave no alms to those in need,
 No sympathy for all their woe,
Not even kindly words he said,
 That bless the heart from whence they flow.

And love, his love was all for self,
 His heart had no responsive chords,
He longed for praise, for flattery,
 The meed a trifling world awards.

But when misfortune came to him
 He wondered that his friends wore few,
He had not seen as others saw,
 The world was wiser than he knew.