Just Poetry

An Angel in Rags

As snowflakes fell to coat the land,

Obscuring all with pure white sand,

I felt the season move my heart,

And thus I went to play my part.

I went about from store to store,

Collecting tithes by every door,

While shivering; without* was cold

And ringing-bells were chill to hold.

But every time a penny fell

I'd raise my hand and ring my bell,

Thus thanking all for those in need,

My heart the warmer with each deed.

I saw the rich and saw the poor;

All kinds of men passed through the door

And some would stop to give a dime,

A portion of their wealth o'er time.

What saddened me, howe'er, was this:

That wealthy men would pass in bliss,

And think not of the poor in blight

Who battle hunger day and night.

They pass the door with head held high,

Pretending not to hear the cry

Of souls forever lost in night

Who ask for but a shred of light.

"Rich men," said I, "have not the heart

To go, and give, and play their part."

I thought of this, and of the poor,

As stood I, ringing by the door.

But once, a woman-old and frail-

Paid visit to my tithing pail.

She came in rags-no heat they kept-

With hair in which all angles leapt.

She reached out hand, so thin and old,

(And thought I, "How she shakes from cold!")

And gave a nickel and a dime;

So touched was I, I could not chime.

This lowly woman had not much

Aside from rags, to which she'd clutch,

And yet she stood here at my pail,

And smiled, face with kindness frail.

A new warmth blossomed from my breast,

A different kind from all the rest.

It made me prostrate at her feet,

And "Bless you!" many times repeat.

I saw in her a holy light,

So filled with love's eternal might

That thought I, "Here an Angel stands,

Which walks throughout the mortal lands."

Forgave I, then, with all my heart

The wealthy men for lack of part,

For then I knew that Winter's sand

Has struck us-most-through heart or hand.

* Without: archaic for outside.