Toward Childhood / Henry B. Fuller

Backward, O Time, and for a single hour

Make a small child of him who stands before us 

At the advanced age of seventy-five—

Leander M. Coggswell, multimillionaire.

In days when gross wealth drugs the very atmosphere,

It would be vain to guard these present lines from its insidious approach.

Shall I seem to overdo

If I give Mr. C. one hundred millions?

Very well; they're his.

Postponement / Henry B. Fuller

When Albert F. McComb 

Died in his native Dodgetown 

At the age of sixty-odd,

People said--the few who said anything at all--

That he had lived a futile life, 

And that Europe was to blame: 

His continual hankering after the Old World 

Had made him a failure in the New.