THE MENDICANTS.
WE are as mendicants who wait Along the roadside in the sun. Tatters of yesterday and shreds Of morrow clothe us every one.
And some are dotards, who believe And glory in the days of old; While some are dreamers, harping still Upon an unknown age of gold.
Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds, As lavish Time comes down the way And tosses in the suppliant hat One great new-minted gold To-day.
Ungrateful heart and grudging thanks, His beggar's wisdom only sees Housing and bread and beer enough; He knows no other things than these.