Even the shrewd and bitter,
Gnarled by the old world's greed,
Cherished the stranger softly Seeing his utter need.
Shelter and patient hearing,
These were their gifts to him,
To the minstrel chanting, begging,
As the sunset-fire grew dim.
The rich said "you are welcome." Yea, even the rich were good.
How strange that in their feasting His songs were understood!
The doors of the poor were open,
The poor who had wandered too,
Who slept with never a roof-tree Under the wind and dew.
The minds of the poor were open,
There dark mistrust was dead:
They loved his wizard stories,
They bought his rhymes with bread.
Those were his days of glory,
Of faith in his fellow-men.
Therefore to-day the singer Turns beggar once again.
