Henry Lawson


I hate this grinding poverty To toil, and pinch, and borrow, And be for ever haunted by The spectre of to-morrow. It breaks the strong heart of a man, It crushes out his spirit Do what he will, do what he can, However high his merit! I hate the praise that Want has got From preacher and from poet, The cant of those who know it not To blind the men who know it. The greatest curse since man had birth, An everlasting terror: The cause of half the crime on earth, The cause of half the error.

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