There’s a word that keeps us from the best of things,
Making some men peasants, making others kings,
Making all to sorrow, forcing some to die,
For uncounted sorrows the one reason why.
There’s a word begetting bitterness and strife,
Evermore beclouding all the sky of life,
Driving men to battle when they ought to be
Linked in soul together by fraternity.
There’s a word that enters in the holy place,
Writes its tale of trouble on the fairest face;
Makes of life a struggle, fraught with grasping greed,
When its years were given for high thought and deed.
There’s a word that robs us of the happy song;
Makes the earth a treadmill, elevates the strong;
Drives the weak from justice; grinds the poor and worn;
Fills the years with hatred; seeds the world with scorn.
There’s a word absorbing manhood’s fruitful hour,
Careless of life’s meaning, prodigal of power,
Making regal spirits satisfied with pelf,
It is short but powerful, and its name is self.