Classic Poem

Hiss, hiss—the north wind blows,
knocking people down in the streets.
They have pants which don't even cover their shins;
and they have no food at all; only dust fills their jars.
In the warm houses, what do they know of winter?
The flowery rooms have a springtime of their own!
Those dandies with their fancy pants of silk:
there's not much you can say to them about the poor.