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!”