By JH Sayyar
O cruel shade that stalks the lowly lane,
Thou wear rags and hunger as thy crown,
Where hopes lie beneath the weight of pain,
And dreams like leaves are trampled down.
Thy chill is in hearths, warmth should glow,
Thy silence speaks in pots and shelves;
Where laughter wanes, tears more freely flow,
Souls must learn to harden, guard themselves.
Yet in thy grip, some find a quiet grace,
A fire that need and sorrow cannot kill;
For thou steal the gold from every place,
Thou leave a will, strength, a tempered will
O Poverty! Though bitter be thy sting,
From there the mightiest hearts take wing.
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