That selfsame day a dart of deadly pain
Shot through that rich man's hard, unfeeling heart,
That laid him low, beyond the power to save,
E'en while his servants cast without his gates
That poor old man, who came to beg him spare
His roof-tree, where his fathers all had died,
His hearth, the shrine of all his inmost joys,
His little home, to every heart so dear;
And in due season tongues of hissing flames
That rich man's robes like snowflakes whirled in air,
And curled his crackling skin, consumed his flesh,
And sucked the marrow from his whitened bones.
But here these two their places seem to change.
That rich man's houses, lands, and flocks and herds,
His servants, rich apparel, stores of gold,
And all he loved and lived for left behind,
The friends that nature gave him turned to foes,
Dependents whom his greed had wronged and crushed
Shrinking away as from a deadly foe;
No generous wish, no gentle, tender, thought
To hide his nakedness, his shriveled soul
Stood stark and bare, the gaze of passers-by;
Nothing within to draw him on and up,
He slinks away, and wanders on and down,
Till in the desert, groveling in the dust,
He digs and burrows, seeking treasures there--
While that poor man, as we count poverty,
Is rich in all that makes the spirit's wealth,
His heart so pure that thoughts of guile
And evil purpose find no lodgment there;
His life so innocent that bitter words
And evil-speaking ne'er escape his lips;
The little that he had he freely shared,
And wished it more that more he might have given;
Now rich in soul--for here a crust of bread
In kindness shared, a cup of water given,
Is worth far more than all Potosi's mines,
And Araby's perfumes and India's silks,
And all the cattle on a thousand hills--
And clothed as with a robe of innocence
The devas welcome him, his troubles passed,
The conflict ended and the triumph gained.
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