Day was one of weariness, The
—With no bright interlude;
I was fatigued by homely tasks—
—Bereft of fortitude.

Night's shadows brought a deeper gloom
—And when a sudden knock
Upon the door came startling me,
—Trembling, I turned the lock.

There stood a tired, dejected man
—Who humbly asked for bread,
And in his countenance there was
—No thing to fear or dread.

For meekness and humility
—Were stamped upon his face
As though some sorrow's heavy weight
—Had passed and left its trace.

Forgetting care, I turned to fetch
—A plate of meat and bread;
By serving him somehow my heart
—Was strangely comforted.

And evil tales of vagrant folk
—All vanished when he said:
“I thank you for this kindly act,”
—Then bowed and trudged ahead. . . .

Did he know that I too had begged
—But not for earthly bread—
That when I gave him food and drink
—My spirit had been fed?

Day was one of weariness, The
—With no bright interlude;
I was fatigued by homely tasks—
—Bereft of fortitude.

Night's shadows brought a deeper gloom
—And when a sudden knock
Upon the door came startling me,
—Trembling, I turned the lock.

There stood a tired, dejected man
—Who humbly asked for bread,
And in his countenance there was
—No thing to fear or dread.

For meekness and humility
—Were stamped upon his face
As though some sorrow's heavy weight
—Had passed and left its trace.

Forgetting care, I turned to fetch
—A plate of meat and bread;
By serving him somehow my heart
—Was strangely comforted.

And evil tales of vagrant folk
—All vanished when he said:
“I thank you for this kindly act,”
—Then bowed and trudged ahead. . . .

Did he know that I too had begged
—But not for earthly bread—
That when I gave him food and drink
—My spirit had been fed?