To a Little Child Begging

Poor little traveller, lost in night! God made a miracle, I know,

To give you life — tears and delight, And ecstasy and ancient woe.

Yet barefoot in the snow you stand, Beseeching bread with shaking hand.

Poor baby, with your wistful face! When you are grown a man, and tall, You'll have the kingly, simple grace, The smile that makes a festival.

Yet from the dark your hungry eyes Behold the cook-shop’s paradise.