 | Legends of the Morrow |  |
106
THE POET'S ALMS-HOUSE.
I
Outside is life: the garden on the wallWhose roses round the attic window sweep;
The vine above the door whose clusters weep;
Ripe to the stem; but both together fall;
No hand the climbing garden shapes,
Or gathers in the grapes.
107
II
Yet is there life, though not to strangers' eyes;No voice of welcome here the comer greets;
No hand held out, no pleasant face he meets;
An alms-house once, untenanted it lies.
Words heard afar once spoken here,
He heareth not when near.
III
Yet is there life; the pilgrim-friends of oldHere feel a hand that on the page has wrought
For distant times the messages of thought,
Which spoken once remain for ever told:
An alms-house he but leaves behind
Who pensioned all mankind.
| Legends of the Morrow | |