Few, save the poor, feel for the poor:
The rich know not how hard It is to be of needful food And needful rest debarred.
Their paths are paths of plenteousness,
They sleep on silk and down;
And never think how heavily The weary head lies down.
They know not of the scanty meal,
With small pale faces round;
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth When snow is on the ground.
They never by the window lean,
And see the gay pass by;
Then take their weary task again,
But with a sadder eye.
