________________________________________________
Title: Diagnosis
Author: Edmund Vance Cooke [
More Titles by Cooke]
You have a grudge against the man
Who did the thing you couldn't do.
You hatched the scheme, you laid the plan,
And yet you couldn't push it through.
You strained your soul and couldn't win;
He gave a breath and it was easy.
You smile and swallow your chagrin,
But, oh, the swallow makes you queasy.
I know your illness, for, you see,
The diet never pleases me.
Your dearest friend has made a strike,
Has placed his mark above the crowd,
Has won the thing which you would like
And you are glad for him, and proud.
Your tongue is swift, your cheek is red,
If some one speak to his detraction,
And yet, the fact the thing is said
Affords you half a satisfaction.
I see the workings of your mind
Because my own is so inclined.
You tell me fame is hollow squeak,
You say that wealth is carking care;
And to live care-free a single week
Is more than years of work and wear.
Alexander weeps his highest place,
Diogenes is happy sunning!
What matters it who wins the race
So you have had the joy of running?
And yet, you covet prize and pelf.
I know it, for I do, myself.
[The end]
Edmund Vance Cooke's poem: Diagnosis
________________________________________________
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
