I walk the streets and though not meanly drest,
Yet none so poor as can with me compare;
For none though weary call me into rest,
And though I hunger, none their substance share;
I ask not for my stay the broken reed,
That fails when most I want a friendly arm;
I cannot on the loaves and fishes feed
That want the blessing that they may not harm;
I only ask the living word to hear
From tongues that now but speak to utter death;
I thirst for one cool cup of water clear
But drink the riled stream of lying breath;
And wander on though in my Fatherland,
Yet hear no welcome voice and see no beckoning hand.
The Poor
Jones Very
(1)
Poem topics: breath, death, poor, walk, water, voice, clear, stay, feed, hunger, broken, speak, share, drink, cool, substance, stream, compare, hear, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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