Poems (Procter)/Homeless
HOMELESS.
T is cold, dark midnight, yet listen To that patter of tiny feet!Is it one of your dogs, fair lady, Who whines in the bleak cold street?Is it one of your silken spaniels Shut out in the snow and the sleet?My dogs sleep warm in their baskets, Safe from the darkness and snow;All the beasts in our Christian England, Find pity wherever they go—(Those are only the homeless children Who are wandering to and fro).
Look out in the gusty darkness,— I have seen it again and again,That shadow, that flits so slowly Up and down past the window pane:—It is surely some criminal lurking Out there in the frozen rain?
Nay, our criminals all are sheltered, They are pitied and taught and fed:That is only a sister-woman Who has got neither food nor bed,—And the Night cries, "Sin to be living," And the River cries, "Sin to be dead."
Look out at that farthest corner Where the wall stands blank and bare:—Can that be a pack which a Pedler Has left and forgotten there?His goods lying out unsheltered Will be spoilt by the damp night-air.
Nay;—goods in our thrifty England Are not left to lie and grow rotten,For each man knows the market value Of silk or woollen or cotton. . .But in counting the riches of England I think our Poor are forgotten.
Our Beasts and our Thieves and our Chattels Have weight for good or for ill;But the Poor are only His image, His presence, His word, His will;—And so Lazarus lies at our doorstep And Dives neglects him still.
Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.