WHEN I am dead and turned to dust,
Let men say what they will, I care not aught ;
Let them say I was careless, indolent,
Wasted the precious hours in dreaming thought,
Did not the good I might have done, but spent
My soul upon myself, sometimes let rise
Thick mists of earth betwixt me and the skies :
What must be must.

But not that I betrayed a trust ;
Broke some girl's heart, and left her to her shame ;
Sneered young souls out of faith ; rose by deceit ;
Lifted: by credulous mobs to wealth and fame ;
Waxed fat while good men waned, by lie and cheat ;
Cringed to the strong ; oppressed the poor and weak :
When men say this, may some find voice to speak,
Though I am dust.