He lost his money first of all
(It was the start of his sad story) ,
Then later on he had a fall
With fate: in things less transitory.
He lost his heart - and found it dead
(His one and only true discovery) ,
And after that he lost his head,
And all his chances of recovery.
He lost his honor bit by bit
Until the thing was out of question.
He worried so at losing it,
He lost his sleep and his digestion.
He lost his temper, and for good
The remnants of his reputation,
His taste in drink and friends and food,
And then in rapid culmination,
His certitudes, his sense of truth,
His memory, his self-control,
The love that graced his early youth,
And lastly his immortal soul.
(Hilaire Belloc, alt.)
Comments about this poem (The Loser by sean wright )
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