Ragged, unheeded, stooping, meanly shod, <br />The poor pass to the pond: not far away <br />The spires go up to God. <br /> <br />Shyly they come from the unpainted lane; <br />Coats have they made of old unhappiness <br />That keeps in every pain. <br /> <br />The rich have fear, perchance their God is dim; <br />’Tis with the hope of stored-up happiness <br />They build the spires to Him. <br /> <br />The rich go out in clattering pomp and dare <br />In the most holy places to insult <br />The deep Benevolence there. <br /> <br />But ’tis the poor who make the loving words. <br />Slowly they stoop; it is a Sacrament: <br />The poor can feed the birds. <br /> <br />Old, it is old, this scattering of the bread, <br />Deep as forgiveness, or the tears that go <br />Out somewhere to the dead. <br /> <br />The feast of love, the love that is the cure <br />For all indignities—it reigns, it calls, <br />It chains us to the pure. <br /> <br />Seldom they speak of God, He is too dim; <br />So without thought of after happiness <br />They feed the birds for Him. <br /> <br />The rich men walk not here on the green sod, <br />But they have builded towers, the timorous <br />That still go up to God. <br /> <br />Still will the poor go out with loving words; <br />In the long need, the need for happiness <br />The poor can feed the birds.<br /><br />John Shaw Neilson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poor-can-feed-the-birds/
