A miser makes of his pile of vast wealth, No more use than a corpse. Believing wealth is everything, yet giving nothing, The miser is ensnared in the misery of birth. Their very sight is a burden to earth Who hoard wealth and not renown. What legacy can one, who is loved by none, Think of leaving behind? Wealth, though millions manifold, amounts to nothing If one neither gives nor enjoys it. Riches are a curse when neither enjoyed, Nor given to the worthy. Wealth not given to the needy goes waste Like a lovely spinster growing old. The wealth of the unloved is like a poisonous tree That ripens in the heart of a village. Strangers shall possess that wealth Amassed without love, comfort or scruples. The brief want of the benign rich Is like the monsoon clouds just shed its moisture.