The Poor

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.