The poem
In Wall Street once a potent power, And now a multi-millionaire Alone within a shady bower In clothes his valet would not wear, He watches bird wings bright the air.
The man who mighty mergers planned, And oil and coal kinglike controlled, With field-glasses in failing hand Spies downy nestlings five days old, With joy he could not buy for gold.
Aye, even childlike is his glee; But how he crisps with hate and dread And shakes a clawlike fist to see A kestrel hover overhead: Though he would never shoot it dead.
Although his cook afar doth forage For food to woo his appetite, The old man lives on milk and porridge And now it is his last delight At eve if one lone linnet lingers To pick crushed almonds from his fingers.