 | New poems by Madison Cawein |  |
209
THE VILLAGE MISER
The dogs made way for him and snarled and ran;And little children to their parents clung,
Big-eyed with fear, when, gruff of look and tongue,
Bent-backed he passed who had the village ban.
In old drab coat and trousers, shoes of tan,
And scarecrow hat,—from some odd fashion sprung,—
A threadbare cloak about his shoulders flung,
Grasping a crookèd stick, limped by this man.
Unspeaking and unspoken to, but oft
Cursed after for a miser as he passed,
Or barked at by the dogs who feared his cane.—
One day they found him dead; killed in his loft.
Among his books,—the hoard which he had massed.—
And then they laughed and swore he was insane.
| New poems by Madison Cawein | |