Time was when his half million drew   The breath of six per cent; But soon the worm of what-was-not   Fed hard on his content; And something crumbled in his brain   When his half million went. Time pa**ed, and filled along with his   The place of many more; Time came, and hardly one of us   Had credence to restore, From what appeared one day, the man   Whom we had known before. The broken voice, the withered neck,   The coat worn out with care, The cleanliness of indigence,
  The brilliance of despair, The fond imponderable dreams   Of affluence,—all were there. Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes,   Fares hard now in the race, With heart and eye that have a task   When he looks in the face Of one who might so easily   Have been in Finzer's place. He comes unfailing for the loan   We give and then forget; He comes, and probably for years   Will he be coming yet,— Familiar as an old mistake,   And futile as regret.