Perched
on the low side of a high ledge
I
saw the aged beggar on my way,
Him
from childhood have I known,
He
was old then; and seems not older now, not by a day.
He
travels on, a solitary man,
His
eyes are fixed forever on the ground,
His
staff, his compass on smooth stone or rough
trails
with him, wherever the aged beggar takes his round.
And
from a bag, all white with flour
he
draws his scraps and fragments, meagre dole,
Then
scans them with a fixed and serious look
and
eats the food in solitude; token, from a not unkindly soul.
The
post-boy with his rattling wheels
overtakes
the old man in a wooded lane,
Yet
goes quieter now, without a curse
on
silent horse, no withers, hooves or flaring mane.
She
who tends the pitted dairy door
if
on the road she spies the aged one,
Lifts
her latch to let him pass within
to
sup the buttermilk of teat and salt and sun.
The
cottage curs no longer bark at him,
Scarcely
do his feet disturb the summer dust,
Maids
and youths, the vacant and the busy
pass
him by, as petulant pride outpaces weary trust.
Hill
and dale, little span of earth his close companions,
Scattered
leaves or wheel tracks on a quiet lane
grant
this man the status of a statesman,
Remembered
charities; rejoice that he has come again.
Among
the farms and the solitary huts,
where
that half-wisdom, half-experience gives
that
first mild touch of sympathy and thought
his
charter, truth, exemption ever lives.
My
neighbour, all mankind though pressed herself,
for
this old mendicant, a handful of respite,
Then
let him pass, a blessing on his head,
A
tongue of fire by day, a star by night.
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