Classic Poem

In front of the hut, she scavenges for dates: let her be.
Hungry, childless, the lone woman,
Only the deepest poverty could bring her to this
Her fear, her shame, call the more for kindness
True, she has no reason to distrust her new neighbor.
Yet even a sparse hedge would seem a wall to her
To think of the taxes: poor to the bone
And the horses of war: tears wet my sleeve.