XXX

The beggar thoughts pass down the lanes of day,

And on the thorns that are the hours I find

Their tatters and their rags. Infirm and blind,

They faded in the void, and all the way

Mouthed senseless jeers at me. I dared not pray

For wisdom from these fools who throng the mind

And leave no gifts but bitterness behind.

Chin upon hand, I watched, nor bade them stay.

Then wearily and indolently glanced

Where the thorns fluttered with their flags, and, lo,

Fragments of cloth of silver gleamed and danced

In the late sun, and linen white as snow

Among the beggar thoughts, with lowered eyes,

Princes and kings had wandered in disguise.