Self-Sentenced

Though born a man, he lives a mole;
In vain for him the seasons roll;
Poor earth-worm; in a world of light,
Still deeper digging into night.

Indifferent to life and law,
He knoweth neither love nor awe;—
Askance he eyes the daisied sod,
And turns a Ghetto face on God.

With servile mind and sordid soul,
He shall not miss the chosen goal;
Though all the path with gold be paved,
He cannot from himself be saved.