Pity the man who fails to see,
The sweet beauty of his own,
Who, for the sake of feeling free,
Spends so little time at home;
Pity the man whose children,
He forsakes for other pleasures,
Who, for golf, or lake, or glen,
Neglects his greatest treasures;
Pity the man who, for his greed,
For his own sake, or another's,
Heeds not his little ones' need,
For time with a loving father;
Pity the man who, vain and blind,
For sake of his selfish liberty,
Leaves God's little gifts behind,
And ends in spiritual poverty;
Pity the man, having grown old,
His frolics now run to ground,
Who in his bones feels lonely cold,
With naught to love him 'round.
