Classic Poem

Through years of mirth and years of woe,
Through rifts where dawn-light seems to glow,
And on through deeps of awful gloom,
This old world drifts to meet its doom;
And ceaselessly it hums and spins
To the dreary tune of the Outs and Ins.

The Outs are slaves, who deem this life
A time for labor, care and strife.
Ah, further back than memory runs
Myriads have bowed to greater ones;
And e'en with History's self begins
The story of the Outs and Ins.

The Ins all dwell in palaces,
And have no cares but those of ease;
On naught save choicest meats they dine,
And always drink the oldest wine;
The while the gay world, dancing, spins
To the merry tune of the Outs and Ins.

The Outs are housed on squalid streets,
Where crime with poverty retreats;
They toil for plenty's scraps and crumbs,
Their children freeze when winter comes;
The while the sad world moans and spins
To the dismal tune of the Outs and Ins.

The Ins are born of finest clay,
The gods bend down to hear them pray;
Chance smiles upon them at their birth,
And during all their days on earth
This bright old planet gayly spins
To the jolly tune of the Outs and Ins.

Of coarsest clay the Outs are born—
A heritage of toil and scorn;
And they may curse, or may implore
Our God and all the gods of yore;
But still the dark earth shrieks and spins
To the bitter tune of the Outs and Ins.

Ah me! And so, in life and death,
We cling to Him of Nazareth;
Of blessed Lazarus we tell,
And Dives, dead and gone to hell;
Because this old earth only spins
To the dreary tune of the Outs and Ins.