THE HELPLESS

Those poor, heartbroken wretches, doomed

To hear at night the clocks’ hard tones;

They have no beds to warm their limbs,

But with those limbs must warm cold stones;

Those poor weak men, whose coughs and ailings

Force them to tear at iron railings.

Those helpless men that starve, my pity;

Whose waking day is never done;

Who, save for their own shadows, are

Doomed night and day to walk alone:

They know no bright face but the sun's,

So cold and dark are human ones.