LOVE AND POVERTY by ELIZABETH JONES PULLEN

ONE sat within a hung and lighted room --
A little shape, with face between his wings,
And in the light made of all golden things
He seemed a warm and living rose abloom;
And one without sobbed in the night and gloom,
And all about him was a pilgrim's weed,
His little hands and cold he held for meed
Of his long waiting, sad as by a tomb:
He entered at the door, the other flew
Out at the casement -- and with sudden day
The lamps burned faint, and he who came most new
Was fair, and he who went was wan and gray.
"For I am Love who came," and "Be content,"
Sang this one, "It was Poverty who went!"

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