A Poem.
Into throes I watched him go
With melancholy trailing,
Without the know that which you sew
Will soon be your own failing.
In hot pursuit of ripe acclaim
The men assuredly judge;
And judge they did with much disdain
And new was born a grudge.
Rancorous fury-driven paths
Will only induce fortune
But want esteem, and lose your theme
For men will rise by torture.
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