Classic Poem

Always the poor are with us,
Age-long is their tread.
Anxious or sodden their faces,
Weary and bent their forms,
Heavy, heavy their footsteps,
Shuffling over the earth.
When wild winds are shrieking
And the nights are black,
Do you not hear them shuffling,
Shuffling beneath your window,
Shuffling past your door?
Millions upon millions,
Poor, tired, patient feet,
Shuffling, shuffling, shuffling,
Can you not hear the shuffling,
Heavy tread of the poor?