Classic Poem

BREAD on the stones is cast.
'Tis winter; and the stones are snowy cold:
Yet fluttering past
From leafless trees, the sparrows, young and old,
Flock, in their hunger, to be fed;
And on the cold stones find their daily bread.

Love, with a liberal hand,
Throws out its crumbs; then suddenly withdraws,
Hidden to stand
And watch, behind the window curtain's gauze,
Lest human face, too nigh, should scare
The timid birds from this their simple fare.

And they are glad, and feed,
With eager eye; and live on daily love,
Yet feel none. Greed
And passion stir their little breasts, and move
To bickering wars with wing and bill:
Yet love looks smiling on, and feeds them still.

Hard is this world, and cold;
And toil, care, woe, and sin, are everywhere.
Yet souls untold
Come, from above, to find their sustenance here;
And, midst the stony drought forlorn,
Find manna waiting for them every morn.

God gives that Bread from Heaven:
And yet His Presence not in glorious blaze
Of Fire is given;
But hidden under Veils, lest the bright rays
Of awful light and beauty here
Consume the sinful soul with deadly fear.

Men feed, and they are glad.
They see not God, the Unseen; and they turn,
With envy mad,
And o'er the very Gifts of Love, they burn.
Yet, fighting, feed, and grow, and will:
And patient God sees, loves, and feeds them still.