BAZILE DEAD-WINDThe Beggar
He squatted in the mud with hand outstretched,Beetled of forehead, pocked and scrofulous,Bulbous of scarlet nose; but with the streamOf silver jingling in his birchen bucket,The vagabond waxed somehow crimson-clean,As a warty toadstool flushes into lifeBeneath the benediction of cool sweet rain.
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