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Arthur Symons - The Beggars
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It is the beggars who possess the earth. 
Kings on their throne have but the narrow girth 
Of some poor known dominion; these possess 
All the unknown, and that vast happiness 
Of the uncertainty of human things. 
Wandering on eternal wanderings, 
They know the world; and tasting but the bread 
Of charity, know man; and, Strangely led 
By some vague, certain, and appointed hand, 
Know fate; and being lonely, understand 
Some little of the thing without a name 
That sits by the roadside and talks with them, 
When they are silent; for the soul is shy 
If more than its own shadow loiter by. 
They and the birds are old acquaintances, 
Knowing the dawn together; theirs it is 
To settle on the dusty land like crows, 
The ragged vagabonds of the air; who knows 
How they too shall be fed, day after day, 
And surer than the birds, for are not they 
The prodigal sons of God, our piteous 
Aliens, outcast and accusing us? 
Do they not ask of us their own, and wait, 
Humbly, among the gods about the gate, 
While we are feasting? They will wait till night: 
Who shall wait longer? 
Dim, shadowy, white, 
The highway calls; they follow till it ends,
And all the way they walk among their friends, 
Sun, wind, and rain, their tearful sister rain, 
Their brother wind. Forest and hill and plain 
Know them and are forgotten. Grey and old, 
Their feet begin to linger, brown arms fold 
The heavy piece of earth about their heart, 
And soon, and without trouble, they depart 
On the last journey. 
As the beggar lies, 
With naked face, remembering the skies, 
I think he only wonders: Shall I find 
A good road Still, a hayrick to my mind, 
A tavern now and then upon the road? 
He has been earth`s guest; he goes; the old abode 
Drops to the old horizon, and the day 
Is over, and the dark is on the way.
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