The Rain

Poem By William Henry Davies

Money is the root of all evil,
Money was blessed by the devil,
Money, money can kill,
Money can cheat, steal…
Ask the disbarred lawyer,
What this sad creature
Can do: It can commit suicide,
Money, money can divide,
Money is not what you think it is,
Having money is not going to put you really at ease,
On the contrary, you’ll have fewer friends,
And more creatures showing their hands,
Claws, guns and deadly weapons.
Money will not send you to the heavens,
Money, money is dirty and evil;
Money is a sick devil.
Money and women don’t mix,
Just like alcohol and driving.
Having hush money is not a quick fix,
But a dangerous way to go down the ravine.
Money is not what you think it is,
Having money is not going to put you really at ease.
Money exists to be spent:
To buy food, clothes, and to pay the rent.
Be careful with money,
Money is not a faithful honey.

Comments about The Rain

Thanks for such a wonderful poem
Money will not send you to heaven, money will cheat you.......a pious thought. Thank you poet
Very good
Please read Ace Grace, Life Divine Regards, niv
Excellent Sir… Let me write a few lines: [1] Ramakrishna Paramshanshadev [the disciple of Whom is Cyclonic Humane swami Vivekananda] opined ‘Lucre and Lust are source of delusion. [2] Sri Aravinda [great Maharshi Supreme Sage] also opined that we’re just custodian of His riches and if we misuse He will put out us from custodianship… So money has to be used in wise and prudent way. 10+ Ms. Nivedita UK


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Other poems of DAVIES

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

A Plain Life

No idle gold -- since this fine sun, my friend,
Is no mean miser, but doth freely spend.

No prescious stones -- since these green mornings show,

In The Country

This life is sweetest; in this wood
I hear no children cry for food;
I see no woman, white with care;
No man, with muscled wasting here.

Money

When I had money, money, O!
I knew no joy till I went poor;
For many a false man as a friend
Came knocking all day at my door.

No Master

Indeed this is the sweet life! my hand
Is under no proud man's command;
There is no voice to break my rest
Before a bird has left its nest;

Joy And Pleasure

Now, joy is born of parents poor,
And pleasure of our richer kind;
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing
As sweet a song as joy confined.