POUR not pity upon his head Who hath no meat, or wine or bread; But give him well of your gift of sorrow Who never had need to beg or borrow, And yet who hungers amid his store, And starves and dies at his granary's door. Pity not him that has no bed To soothe his limbs or ease his head, But pity those spirits without number Whose beds are soft and who cannot slumber -- Whose limbs are cooled by their linen's snow, Yet never an hour of rest may know. Vagabond you and vagabond I, Pillowed on grass and roofed by the sky, And yet with slumber upon our pillow And a servant's hand in the fanning willow! The vagabond's morsel is never sour, The vagabond's couch is never hard; There is no room in the castle's tower So fine as ours in the roofless yard. |