Motive

    Worthless, the man who works - he knows not why,
        Whom naught inspires to his puny plan,
    Who seeming plays his part instinctively:
        Soulless, and falsely designated "man."

    Wicked, who works from wish of worldly gain, -
        His soul surrendered to th'accursèd lust
    Of pleasure partial, briefly to remain,
        Of treasure liable to moth and rust.

    Foolish and vain is he whose motive - fame,
        Ruled by desire of honor and renown;
    And fondly courting Fortune's fickle Dame, -
        To-day she smiles, to-morrow she will frown.

    But virtuous, noble, prompted from above,
        Preluding now the perfect life again,
    Is he, whose only inspiration, love,
        Love to his God and to his fellow-men.

    For love is naught but God's own nature, given,
        In partial measure, down to man to come;
    The sole delight of earth, the key to heaven;
        Of all the virtues, centre, source, and sum.