"...and after you have done everything, to stand."

Were I a fellow with all the brights,
I would show you the sights from here to there,
All the stars light up the air,
The fare of which is right,
Though the rich don’t bite,
And the right just don’t seem to care.
But in this matter, little compares,
And the bright don’t try,
And the pyres don’t flare.
For in the clatter and the fright of all who bear such light
There is ne’er a fight that can stop the glare,
And though we try, the plight we share cannot stop the splatter
Of destroyed dreams that shatter while we despair.
The cold bite of death will tear our golden platter there.
But bear this fright, for in this matter, there is still something rare.
If we should fight through, we will see the ladder in the air,
And have but to climb with care, that we might see the better despite the clatter.