THE WANDERER[1]
'Twas in the shadowy gloaming
Of a cold and wet March day,
That a wanderer came roaming
From countries far away.
Scant raiment had he round him,
Nor purse, nor worldly gear,
Hungry and faint we found him,
And bade him welcome here.
His weary frame bent double,
His eyes were old and dim,
His face was writhed with trouble
Which none might share with him.
- ↑ With acknowledgement to my friend Sir A. Quiller-Couch.
