THE OBOL.[A]

Scarce have I rhymed of Charon looming grey Amid pale rushes through the dusky air, And of the obol we no longer care To put in dead men’s mouths as ferry-pay, When, lo, I find, amongst some pence, to-day Received as common change, I know not where, A stray Greek obol, seeming Charon’s fare To put between my lips when I be dead. Poor bastard Obol, even couldst thou cheat The shadowy Boatman, I should scarcely find The heart to cross: extinction seems so sweet. I need thee not; and thou shalt be consigned To some old whining beggar in the street, Whose soul shall cross, while mine shall stay behind.