By Edgar Albert Guest

HE’D made a fortune out of stocks, he couldn’t count his worth;
He ‘d hoarded up a store of gold, a section of the earth;
But still he sighed alone and talked of all the world’s distress,
And mentioned to his dearest friends: ‘Gold won’t buy happiness.’

Within his mansion big and warm he often cried aloud:
‘There is no joy in being rich, no charm in being proud;’
But still the morning saw him frowning, cross and very glum,
Unless he added to his store another goodly sum.

‘Ah, me,’ he often used to say,’ indeed it’s very true,
There are so many things in life that money cannot do;
It cannot purchase peace of mind nor make a conscience clear;
It cannot, when the soul is sad, make sorrow disappear.’

‘You do not know what gold can do,’ a friend of his replied,
‘You little guess its purchase power, because you haven’t tried;
Go, take your money out today, and see what it will buy;
Go, feed the hungry little child and note his twinkling eye.

‘Go, help the brother in distress – an old man starts today
Across the hills to die within the poorhouse far away;
Give him a little of the gold you’ve hoarded to excess,
Then tell me if you can that money won’t buy happiness.

‘The money that is hoarded up will buy no peace of mind,
But money rightly used will bring much comfort you will find;
And if for others but a part of what you have is spent,
You’ll find the happiness you crave, and you will live content.’

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