WHO I KNOW

I do not know his grace the Duke,

Outside whose gilded gate there died

Of want a feeble, poor old man,

With but his shadow at his side.

I do not know his Lady fair,

Who in a bath of milk doth lie;

More milk than could feed fifty babes,

That for the want of it must die.

But well I know the mother poor,

Three pounds of flesh wrapped in her shawl:

A puny babe that, stripped at home,

Looks like a rabbit skinned, so small.

And well I know the homeless waif,

Fed by the poorest of the poor;

Since I have seen that child alone,

Crying against a bolted door.