Classic Poem

Silver hidden in the mine
Does not shine.
Though no soul on earth refuse it,
Gold grows either bright or sordid
By the way a man may use it;
It grows dull when hoarded.
All the coins a miser owns
Might as well be stones.

He rules with power over pelf
Who rules himself.
Libyan shores and Carthaginian,
Realms whose length may well dismay us,
Who conquers Greed has such dominion—
Look at Proculeius.
All the years the gods may give,
Deeds like his outlive.

What's a title, what's a crown?
Virtue laughs them down.
And to him alone she offers
Wreaths and things that grow no older
Who can gaze on golden coffers,
Gaze—and shrug his shoulder.
The happy man wants no one's throne—
He has his own!