I once beheld the end of time! 
   Its stream had ceased to be. 
The drifting years, all soiled with crime, 
   Lay in the filthy sea. 

The prospect o’er the recking waste 
   Was plain from where I stood. 
From shore to shore the wreckage faced 
   The surface of the flood. 

There all that men were wont to prize 
   When time was flowing on, 
Seemed here to sink and there to rise 
   In formless ruin blown. 

In slimy undulations rolied 
   The glory of the brave; 
The scholar’s fame, the rich man’s gold, 
   Alike were on the wave. 

There government, a monstrous form 
   (The sea groaned ’neath the load), 
A helpless mass blown by the storm, 
   On grimy billows rode. 

The bodies of great syndicates 
   And corporations, trusts, 
Proud combinations, and e’en states 
   All beasts of savage lusts. 

With all the monsters ever bred 
   In civilization’s womb, 
Lay scattered, floating, dead, 
   Throughout that liquid tomb. 

It was the reign of general death, 
   Wide as the sweep of eye, 
Save two vile ghosts that still drew breath 
   Because they could not die. 

Ambition climbed above the waves 
   From wreck to wreck he strove; 
And as they sank to watery graves, 
   He on to glory rode. 

And there was Greed—immortal Greed— 
   Just from the shores of time. 
Of all hell’s hosts he took the lead, 
   A monarch of the slime. 

He neither sank below, nor rose 
   Above the brewing flood; 
But swam full length, down to his nose, 
   And steered where’er he would. 

Whatever wreckage met his snout 
   He swallowed promptly down— 
Or floating empire, or redoubt, 
   Or drifting heathen town. 

And yet, it seemed in all that steaming waste 
There nothing so much gratified his taste 
As foetid oil in subterranean tanks, 
And cliffs of coal untouched in nature’s banks, 
Or bits of land where cities might be built, 
As foraging plats for vileness and guilt; 
Or fields of asphalt, soft as fluent salve 
Or anything the Indian asked to have. 

I once beheld the end of time! 
   Its stream had run away; 
The years all drifted down in slime, 
   In filth dishonored lay.

Too-qua-stee (1829 – 1909) was an American poet, short story writer, and essayist born in the Cherokee Nation. He was also known as DeWitt Clinton Duncan.

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