Poem by Jones Very

The Poor

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.

1. Enoch
2. The Robin
3. The Grave Yard
4. The Dead
5. The New Birth

Letitia Landon The Poor ("Few, save the poor, feel for the poor")

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