Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/121

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If he were old and quite infirm,His house was very fresh and young,And envy is a winding worm—These thoughts were pepper to his tongue.
And so he watched it grow and grow,And jotted down the things he heard,Scheming to balance by the blowHis house should deal as final word.
To crown the whole and go beyondWhatever yet had been attempted.In his small town, he signed a bondWhich would most certainly have emptied
The pockets of quite half his friends,Even to him it was a point,But when a man aims at such endsHe must keep stiff in every joint.
He bought a quarry's good half yearOf first-class, fine-grained marble output,He paid a mason very nearAs much again to have it cut.
The sharp white polished steps were grandDescending from the stucco porch.They glittered like a marching band,They mounted upward like a torch.
But he had taken to his bedBefore the last was set in place,And one week later he was deadWith a slow smile upon his face.
The marble flashed beneath the fallOf undertakers' feet who carriedHis coffin to the funeralWithin the house. And there he tarried

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