The Wanderer
I
I met a waif i' the hills at close of day.
He begged an alms; I thought to say him nay.
What was he? “Sir, a little dust,” said he,
“Which life blows up and down, and death will lay.”
I gave—for love of beast and hill and tree,
And all the dust that has been and shall be.
II
He knows no home; he only knows
Hunger and cold and pain;
The four winds are his bedfellows;
His sleep is dashed with rain.
'Tis nought to him who fails, who thrives;
He neither hopes nor fears;
Some dim primeval impulse drives
His footsteps down the years.
He could not, if he would, forsake
Lone road and field and tree.
Yet, think! it takes a God to make
E'en such a waif as he.
