MY NEIGHBOR OVER THE WAY

I KNOW where an old philosopher dwells,
 A bearded cynic, of wit and sense,
In a broad white web, with curious cells,
On the sunny side of the garden fence.
He passes the days in virtuous ease,
Watching the world with his many eyes;
And I think he is sorry when he sees
How his web entangles the moths and flies.

I have a neighbor, a legal man—
We meet on the sidewalk every day.
(He is shrewd to argue and scheme and plan,
Is my legal neighbor over the way.)
He talks, perhaps, a trifle too much—
But he knows such a vast deal more than I.
We have in our village a dozen such,
Who do no labor—the Lord knows why.

But they eat and drink of the very best,
And the cloth that they wear is soft and fine;
And they have more money than all the rest,
With handsome houses, and plate, and wine.
And I ponder at times when tired and lame,
How strangely the gifts of fortune fall,
And wonder if we are not to blame,
Who have so little, yet pay for all.

Alas for the workmen over the land,
Who labor and watch, but wait too long,
Who wear the vigor of brain and hand
On trifling pleasures, and drink, and song.
Alas for the strength too much diffused,
And the lights that lure from the better way,
For the gifts and riches we have not used,
And the true hearts beating to swift decay.

Alas for the twig, perversely bent,
And the tree of knowledge, to wrong inclined;
Alas that a dollar was ever spent
Until the dollar was earned or mined.—
But my neighbor is one who understands
All social riddles; and he explains
That some must labor with calloused hands,
While others may work with tongues and brains.

Though he doesn’t make it so very clear
Why he should fare much better than one
Who does more work in a single year
Than he in all of his life has done.
But he argues me out of all demur
With logic that fogs my common sense,
And I think of the old philosopher,
Whose “shingle” hangs by the garden fence.