The holes in my coat of want

Were the praise of good clothing.

Her chill indifference vaunt

Whom I loved was the proving

Of earnest young loving.

Now my chair of comfort is set

And the air in my room is warm,

Good things on my table, and yet

Beyond reach of my arm

The potion of charm.

The hand of Soft Ease is hard—

It was never raised in Heaven,

The eyes of Soft Ease are starred

In wastes where no driven

Truths have striven.