Love and Poverty

One sat within a hung and lighted room— A little shape, with face between his wings, And in the light made of all golden things He seemed a warm and living rose abloom; And one without sobbed in the night and gloom, And all about him was a pilgrim’s weed, His little hands and cold he held for meed Of his long waiting, sad as by a tomb: He entered at the door, the other flew Out at the casement—and with sudden day The lamps burned faint, and he who came most new Was fair, and he who went was wan and gray. “For I am Love who came,” and “Be content,” Sang this one, “It was Poverty who went!”