A man may spend his life in many ways
Seemingly free as air, and yet a slave
Become to that which he will choose to do.
Yea, though he toil where there be few to praise,
Self-satisfaction will his spirit crave,
And gained, will forge the cage he’ll ne’er break through
Too late he sees the bars that cross his days,
The shackles that will weigh him to the grave ;
That which gave him delight will cause his rue.
Here, where he met the trains, and flowers did raise,
The stationmaster gave his earthly all
And sacrificed at length his wasted powers
Amid his ordered plots and transient flowers,
As prostrate ‘neath the wheels his life did fall.
Mona’s Herald 27.6.61