Page:Poems Denver.djvu/193

How, from the outward world of pain
 Wherein brood toil and care,
Into the bounds of that charmed domain,
 How found it entrance there?

I read on its tiny page a tale
 Of a grave and silent child,
Whose lips but seldom spoke a word,
 And very seldom smiled,
For idle jests would haunt his steps
 Wherever he would move;—
He was not formed to win the heart
 By gentleness and love.

There was no beauty on his brow,
 No gladness in his eye;
And the heedless words of his merry mates
 Were passed in silence by.
He ever gazed on his open book,
 Abstracted and alone,
It seemed that his boyish spirit felt
 The chains around it thrown.

There was no sympathy for him,
 For his parents were very poor;
And tales of their abject poverty
 Were talked of o'er and o'er.
I did not scorn him in my heart,
 Yet was I not forbid;—
But I felt ashamed to be ashamed
 To do as others did!