HE'D made a fortune out of stocks, he couldn't count his worth; <br />He 'd hoarded up a store of gold, a section of the earth; <br />But still he sighed alone and talked of all the world's distress, <br />And mentioned to his dearest friends: 'Gold won't buy happiness.' <br /> <br />Within his mansion big and warm he often cried aloud: <br />'There is no joy in being rich, no charm in being proud;' <br />But still the morning saw him frowning, cross and very glum, <br />Unless he added to his store another goodly sum. <br /> <br />'Ah, me,' he often used to say,' indeed it's very true, <br />There are so many things in life that money cannot do; <br />It cannot purchase peace of mind nor make a conscience clear; <br />It cannot, when the soul is sad, make sorrow disappear.' <br /> <br />'You do not know what gold can do,' a friend of his replied, <br />'You little guess its purchase power, because you haven't tried; <br />Go, take your money out today, and see what it will buy; <br />Go, feed the hungry little child and note his twinkling eye. <br /> <br />'Go, help the brother in distress — an old man starts today <br />Across the hills to die within the poorhouse far away; <br />Give him a little of the gold you've hoarded to excess, <br />Then tell me if you can that money won't buy happiness. <br /> <br />'The money that is hoarded up will buy no peace of mind, <br />But money rightly used will bring much comfort you will find; <br />And if for others but a part of what you have is spent, <br />You'll find the happiness you crave, and you will live content.'<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/money-138/
