Classic Poem

How many a man has cursed his luck;
And, striving to forget,
The last match in the box has struck
To light a cigarette;

And from the spurt of golden flame
Unconsciously caught fire;
And, shaking off the sloth of shame,
Has won his heart's desire!

But I, as the last match I hold,
Wonder if its gold flare
Can quicken to a kindred gold
A heart too dead to care!