64
A STRANGE COUNTRY.
This morning, with a beard as white
As his own shroud should be, in sight
Of her high windows' precious lace,
A man—with, oh! so sad a face
One scarce could look at it for tears—
Stood with a staff, and slowly said:
"It's the first time in all these years;
But, Madam, I must ask for bread."
As his own shroud should be, in sight
Of her high windows' precious lace,
A man—with, oh! so sad a face
One scarce could look at it for tears—
Stood with a staff, and slowly said:
"It's the first time in all these years;
But, Madam, I must ask for bread."
The lady, lily-like, within
Her hands, that did not toil nor spin,
Held all sweet things this world can give;
The man, for just the breath to live,
Early and late, in sun and snow,
Had done his best.—I thought you knew!
. . . It must be a strange country, though,
Where such strange stories can be true.
Her hands, that did not toil nor spin,
Held all sweet things this world can give;
The man, for just the breath to live,
Early and late, in sun and snow,
Had done his best.—I thought you knew!
. . . It must be a strange country, though,
Where such strange stories can be true.
