THERE’LL come a day when we must make full payment for all the foolish
things we do today; and sackcloth then perchance will be our raiment,
and we’ll regret the hours we threw away. We loaf today, and we shall
loaf tomorrow, hard by the pump or in the corner store; there’ll come a
day when we’ll look back with sorrow on wasted hours, the hours that
come no more. We say harsh things to friends who look for kindness, and
bring the tears to loving, patient eyes; we scold and quarrel in our
fretful blindness, instead of smiles, we call up mournful sighs. Our
friends will tread the path that leads us only to rest and silence in
the grass-grown grave; there’ll come a day when weary, sad and lonely,
we’ll think of them and of the wounds we gave. In marts of trade we’re
prone to overreaching, to swell our roll we cheat and deal in lies,
forgetful oft of early moral teaching, and all the counsel of the good
and wise. It is, alas, an evil road we travel, that leads at last to
bitterness and woe; there’ll come a day when gold will seem as gravel,
and we shall mourn the sins of long ago.
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