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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=454879" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>St. Yve’s Poor</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">JEFFIK was there, and Matthieu, and brown Bran,<br>Warped in old wars and babbling of the sword,<br>And Jannedik, a white rose pinched and paled<br>With the world's frosts, and many more beside,<br>Lamed, rheumed and palsied, aged, impotent<br>Of all but hunger and blind lifted hands.<br>I set the doors wide at the given hour,<br>Took the great baskets piled with bread, the fish<br>Yet silvered of the sea, the curds of milk,<br>And called them, Brethren, brake, and blest, and gave. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For O, my Lord, the house dove knows her nest<br>Above my window builded from the rain;<br>In the brown mere the heron finds her rest,<br>But these shall seek in vain. <br>And O, my Lord, the thrush may fold her wing,<br>The curlew seek the long lift of the seas,<br>The wild swan sleep amid his journeying,–<br>There is no rest for these. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thy dead are sheltered; housed and warmed they wait<br>Under the golden fern, the falling foam;<br>But these, Thy living, wander desolate<br>And have not any home. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I called them, Brethren, brake, and blest, and gave.<br>Old Jeffik had her withered hand to show,<br>Young Jannedik had dreamed of death, and Bran<br>Would tell me wonders wrought on fields of war,<br>When Michael and his warriors rode the storm,<br>And all the heavens were thrilled with clanging spears,–<br>Ah, God, my poor, my poor.–Till there came one<br>Wrapped in foul rags, who caught me by the robe,<br>And pleaded, 'Bread, my father.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In his hand<br>I laid the last loaf of the daily dole,<br>Saw on the palm a red wound like a star,<br>And bade him, 'Let me bind it.'<br>'These my wounds,' <br>He answered softly, 'daily dost thou bind.'<br>And I, 'My son, I have not seen thy face.<br>But thy bruised feet have trodden on my heart.<br>I will get water for thee.'<br>'These my hurts,'<br>Again he answered, 'daily dost thou wash.'<br>And I once more, 'My son, I know thee not,<br>But the bleak wind blows bitter from the sea,<br>And even the gorse is perished. Rest thou here.'<br>And he again, 'My rest is in thy heart.<br>I take from thee as I have given to thee.<br>Dost thou not know Me, Breton ?'<br>I,–'My Lord!'– </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A scent of lilies on the cold sea-wind,<br>A thin, white blaze of wings, a face of flame<br>Over the gateway, and the vision passed,<br>And there were only Matthieu and brown Bran, <br>And the young girl, the foam-white Jannedik,<br>Wondering to see their father rapt from them,<br>And Jeffik weeping o'er her withered hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Marjorie+Lowry+Christie+Pickthall">Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=454879" data-title="St. Yve’s Poor de Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall" data-description="JEFFIK was there, and Matthieu, and brown Bran,
Warped in old wars and babbling of the sword,
And Jannedik, a white rose pinched and paled
With the world's frosts, and many more beside,
Lamed, rheumed and palsied, aged, impotent
Of all but hunger ..."></div>
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