The Poor
Few, save the poor, feel for the poor:
The rich know not how hard
It is to be of needful food
And needful rest debarred.
Their paths are paths of plenteousness,
They sleep on silk and down;
And never think how heavily
The weary head lies down.
They know not of the scanty meal,
With small pale faces round;
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth
When snow is on the ground.
They never by the window lean,
And see the gay pass by;
Then take their weary task again,
But with a sadder eye.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Great Chicago Fire
The great Chicago Fire, friends,
Will never be forgot;
In the history of Chicago
It will remain a darken spot.
It was a dreadful horrid sight
To see that City in flames;
But no human aid could save it,
For all skill was tried in vain.
In the year of 1871,
In October on the 8th,
The people in that City, then
Was full of life, and great.
Less than four days it lay in ruins,
That garden City, so great
Lay smouldering in ashes,
In a sad and pitiful state.
It was a sad, sad scene indeed,
To see the fire arise,
And hear the crackling of the flames
As it almost reached the skies,
And sadder still, to hear the moans,
Of people in the flames
Cry for help, and none could get,
Ah, die where they remained.
To see the people run for life;
Up and down the blazing streets,
To find then, their escape cut off
By the fiery flaming sheets,
And others hunting for some friend
That perhaps they never found,
Such weeping, wailing, never was known,
For a thousands miles around.
Some people were very wealthy
On the morning of the 10th.
But at the close of the evening,
Was poor, but felt content,
Glad to escape from harm with life
With friends they loved so well,
Some will try to gain more wisdom,
By the sad sight they beheld.
Five thousand people were homeless,
Sad wanderers in the streets,
With no shelter to cover them,
And no food had they to eat.
They wandered down by the lake side,
Lay down on the cold damp ground,
So tired and weary and homeless,
So the rich, the poor, was found.
Mothers with dear little infants,
Some clinging to the breast.
People of every description
All laid down there to rest,
With the sky as their covering,
Ah, pillows they had none.
Sad, oh sad, it must have been,
For those poor homeless ones.
Neighboring Cities sent comfort,
To the poor lone helpless ones,
And God will not forget them
In all the years to come.
Now the City of Chicago
Is built up anew once more,
And may it never be visited
With such a great fire no more.
poem by Julia A Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ah, Bleak And Barren Was The Moor
Ah! bleak and barren was the moor,
Ah! loud and piercing was the storm,
The cottage roof was shelter'd sure,
The cottage hearth was bright and warm—
An orphan-boy the lattice pass'd,
And, as he mark'd its cheerful glow,
Felt doubly keen the midnight blast,
And doubly cold the fallen snow.
They marked him as he onward press'd,
With fainting heart and weary limb;
Kind voices bade him turn and rest,
And gentle faces welcomed him.
The dawn is up—the guest is gone,
The cottage hearth is blazing still:
Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone!
Hark to the wind upon the hill!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Lily Palmer
She doesn't ask much of life poor Lily Palmer
Just a small cabin by the Gippsland sea
Where she might sleep and from the weather shelter
'Your dreams are small when you're in poverty'.
Her life's belongings in a shopping trolley
She push it up through Bourke Street Mall each day
A tattered figure amongst the wealthy shoppers
She show her years in wrinkles and in gray.
Some look at her with looks of human pity
Whilst some with looks of scorn ask who is she?
But she has learnt to cope with disapproval
Nor does she welcome looks of sympathy.
The Salvation Army give her food and clothing
Without their help by now she may be dead
And she sleep on hard bench at Spencer Street Station
I do not envy Lily her cold bed.
She's sixty six too old for the rough lifestyle
And far too old for sleeping in the damp and cold
Life's never easy for the poor and needy
And so much harder for the poor and old.
It has been said she has a son and daughter
And that she has not laid eyes on them for years
She raised them on her own when times were better
But for her past she doesn't shed any tears.
Faces of wealth and affluence all around me
And amongst them the face of poverty I see
Through Bourke street Mall poor Lily slowly shuffles
Indifferent to both scorn and sympathy.
Still she has her dream and her dream seem quite modest
A small cabin in Gippsland somewhere by the sea
Where she might sleep and shelter from the weather
Your dreams are small when you're in poverty.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Villanelle Of Sunset
Come hither, child, and rest,
This is the end of day,
Behold the weary West!
Sleep rounds with equal zest
Man's toil and children's play,
Come hither, child, and rest.
My white bird, seek thy nest,
Thy drooping head down lay,
Behold the weary West!
Now eve is manifest
And homeward lies our way,
Behold the weary West!
Tired flower! upon my breast
I would wear thee alway,
Come hither, child, and rest -
Behold the weary West!
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Villanelle
Come hither, child, and rest,
This is the end of day,
Behold the weary West!
Sleep rounds with equal zest
Man's toil and children's play,
Come hither, child, and rest.
My white bird, seek thy nest,
Thy drooping head down lay,
Behold the weary West!
Now eve is manifest
And homeward lies our way,
Behold the weary West!
Tired flower! upon my breast
I would wear thee alway,
Come hither, child, and rest -
Behold the weary West!
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hard Times
(stephen foster)
Let us pause in lifes pleasures and count its many tears
While we all sup sorrow with the poor.
Theres a song that will linger forever in our ears,
Oh, hard times, come again no more
tis the song, the sigh of the weary.
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered all around my door.
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay.
There are frail forms fainting at the door
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say,
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
tis the song, the sigh of the weary.
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered all around my door.
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
Theres a pale drooping maiden who foils her life away
With a worn out heart, whose better days are oer.
Though her voice it would be merry, tis sighing all the day,
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
tis the song, the sigh of the weary.
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered all around my door.
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
tis the song, the sigh of the weary.
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered all around my door.
Oh, hard times, come again no more
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lay of Poor Louise
Ah, poor Louise! the livelong day
She roams from cot to castle gay;
And still her voice and viol say,
Ah, maids, beware the woodland way,
Think on Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! The sun was high,
It smirch'd her cheek, it dimm'd her eye,
The woodland walk was cool and nigh,
Where birds with chiming streamlets vie
To cheer Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! The savage bear
Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair;
The wolves molest not paths so fair-
But better far had such been there
For poor Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! In woody wold
She met a huntsman fair and bold;
His baldric was of silk and gold,
And many a witching tale he told
To poor Louise.
Ah, poor Louise! Small cause to pine
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine;
For peace of mind that gift divine,
And spotless innocence, were thine,
Ah, poor Louise!
Ah, poor Louise! Thy treasure's reft!
I know not if by force or theft,
Or part by violence, part by gift;
But misery is all that's left
To poor Louise.
Let poor Louise some succour have!
She will not long your bounty crave,
Or tire the gay with warning stave-
For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave,
Poor poor Louise.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hard Times
1. let us pause in lifes pleasures and count its many tears
While we all sup sorrow with the poor.
Theres a song that will linger forever in our ears,
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
tis the song, the sigh of the weary.
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered all around my cabin door.
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
2. while we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay.
There are frail forms fainting at the door.
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say.
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
tis the song, the sigh of the weary.
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered all around my cabin door.
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
3. theres pale drooping maiden who foils her life away
With a worn out heart, whose better days are oer.
Though her voice it would be merry, tis sighing all the day,
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
tis the song, the sigh of the weary.
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered all around my cabin door.
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
tis the song, the sigh of the weary.
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered all around my cabin door.
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Christ's Little Sister
Little Sister of the Poor,
Asking alms from door to door,
Ever on you go;
Clothed in the garb of meekness,
Finding strength in others' weakness,
Soothing others' woe.
Little Sister of the Poor,
Rich in patience to endure
Stern Redemption's load;
Cold and rain and parching heat
Hinder not heroic feet
On the Royal Road.
Little Sister of the Poor,
When your weary day is o'er
Rest there may not be;
For the aged, sick, and needy
Vigils claim and succor speedy,
Turning unto thee.
Little Sister of the Poor,
Narrow is the way but sure,
Heavenward leading on;
For the Master's word thou knowest,
'What unto the least thou doest
Unto me is done.'
poem by John Bannister Tabb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rock In The Weary Land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Yes my love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
None of this moves me,
I should be weeping but it only hurts when I yawn
I let it blow through me, and its gone!
Im dressed like a scarecrow
Stripped of all my power, as if some judge in judgement said
Off with his great coat, and his head!
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Meaningless movies
On the screen behind the band thats blowing flowing shapes
Half of their music is on tape
My mentor and champion is busy tilting at the windows of his stately home
The daemon hes grappling
Is his own!
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Yes my love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
His letter lies open
His accusations flow like poison from his every word
My heart would be broken, but for her
The fag-end of winter
Im in shock! Im on the ropes! I dont know whats become!
She plucks the splinter from my thumb
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Yes my love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
In the weary land!
My rock in a weary land
My rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
In a weary land
Hey!
A rock in a weary land
A rock in a weary land
A rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock in a weary land
In a weary land!
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rock In The Weary Land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Yes my love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
None of this moves me,
I should be weeping but it only hurts when I yawn
I let it blow through me, and its gone!
Im dressed like a scarecrow
Stripped of all my power, as if some judge in judgement said
Off with his great coat, and his head!
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Meaningless movies
On the screen behind the band thats blowing flowing shapes
Half of their music is on tape
My mentor and champion is busy tilting at the windows of his stately home
The daemon hes grappling
Is his own!
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Yes my love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
His letter lies open
His accusations flow like poison from his every word
My heart would be broken, but for her
The fag-end of winter
Im in shock! Im on the ropes! I dont know whats become!
She plucks the splinter from my thumb
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Yes my love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
In the weary land!
My rock in a weary land
My rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
In a weary land
Hey!
A rock in a weary land
A rock in a weary land
A rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock in a weary land
In a weary land!
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Rock In A Weary Land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Yes my love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
None of this moves me,
I should be weeping but it only hurts when I yawn
I let it blow through me, and its gone!
Im dressed like a scarecrow
Stripped of all my power, as if some judge in judgement said
Off with his great coat, and his head!
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Meaningless movies
On the screen behind the band thats blowing flowing shapes
Half of their music is on tape
My mentor and champion is busy tilting at the windows of his stately home
The daemon hes grappling
Is his own!
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Yes my love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
His letter lies open
His accusations flow like poison from his every word
My heart would be broken, but for her
The fag-end of winter
Im in shock! Im on the ropes! I dont know whats become!
She plucks the splinter from my thumb
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
Yes my love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
My love is my rock
In the long, low, weary land
In the weary land!
My rock in a weary land
My rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
In a weary land
Hey!
A rock in a weary land
A rock in a weary land
A rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my love is my rock in a weary land
My love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock is my love is my rock in a weary land
In a weary land!
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cat and the Rat
The pudgy, playful cat said to the rather weary rat,
“I have to keep chasing you so that I don’t get too fat.”
The rather weary rat said he didn’t understand.
“Don’t you chase me for the next meal you’ve planned? ”
The cat laughed and asked, “Why would I want that?
Without you, who would I chase, you silly, weary rat? ”
“I’m tired and sure don’t care if you do get fat.”
Said the more than rather angry weary rat.
At that the rather weary rat decided to ask,
“Can we be friends or is that too tough a task? ”
The pudgy, playful cat frowned and wanted to know,
“Weary rat, just how fat do you want me to grow?
If I stop chasing you, that won’t be too wise,
Since you’re the only way that I can exercise.”
The rather weary rat started to sob and wail.
All this running had made him quite weak and frail.
Then he had an idea that might stop the cat from getting fat.
So he simply asked the pudgy, “Why don't you chase you
Then you can chase it in every place you want to be.”
The pudgy, playful cat had never, ever thought of that.
Now for sure he knew he would never become fat.
He smiled and said, “My chasing you must end
Because, rather weary rat, you are now my best friend!
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Snow Dancing
Frozen ground, frozen ponds,
Overgrown fields awaiting spring.
Snow dancing across the roads,
Snow too cold to melt
when it hits the ground.
To light to stay down,
blowing every which way.
Cars pass by disturbing the air
making the snow dance
on swirling currents of air.
Swirling up, down, all around,
spinning, wildly, round and round,
trying to get to the ground.
Almost bare roads covered
with swirls of snow.
Everywhere the flowing snow.
No cars pass by. Now, only the wind.
Wind still blowing the snow,
up, down, and all around,
dancing lively to the ground.
From my poetry book 'Snowed in by a Warm Fire'
available on Amazon.com
poem by Joe Wocoski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Man who Keeps his Head
THERE'S a man who fights for England, and
he'll keep her still atop,
He will guard her from dishonour in the market
and the shop,
He will save her homes from terror on the fields of
Daily Bread,
He's the man who sticks to business, he's the man
who keeps his head.
Let the foe who strikes at England hear her wheels
of commerce turn,
Let the ships that war with England see her factory
furnace burn;
For the foe most fears the cannon, and his heart
most quails with dread
When behind the man in khaki is the man who
keeps his head.
Brand him traitor and assassin who with miser's
coward mood
Has his gold locked up in secret and his larders
stored with food,
Who has cast adrift his workers, who lies sweating
in his bed,
And who snarls to hear the laughter of the man
Who keeps his head.
Let the poor man teach the rich man, for the poor
man's constant strife
Is from day to day to seek work, day by day to war
with life,
And the poor man's home hangs ever by a frail and
brittle thread,
And the poor man's often hungry, but the poor
man keeps his head.
When the ships come back from slaughter, and the
troops march home from war;
When the havoc strewn behind us threats the road
that lies before,
Every hero shall be welcomed, every orphan shall
be fed,
By the man who stuck to business, by the man who
kept his head.
poem by Harold Begbie from Poems of the Great War
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tears of the poor
Tears of the poor are
The drinks of the rich.
Shedding of blood
Rich man's headache,
Poor men's justice.
Water is too cool
To bring forth your anguish,
Fire is the only solution
Drink fire to end your injustice.
Silence is lover's desire
Poor men's unbearable pain.
Din is the only right choice
To put forth your demand.
Dew is the conspiracy
Hatched between the rich and the king,
Morning is the 1st step
Of that poor men's sufferings.
poem by Abdul Wahab
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Autumn Reverie
Alas! Beautiful Summer now hath fled,
And the face of Nature doth seem dead,
And the leaves are withered, and falling off the trees,
By the nipping and chilling autumnal breeze.
The pleasures of the little birds are all fled,
And with the cold many of them will be found dead,
Because the leaves of the trees are scattered in the blast,
And makes the feathered creatures feel downcast.
Because there are no leaves on the trees to shield them from the storm
On a windy, and rainy, cloudy morn;
Which makes their little hearts throb with pain,
By the chilling blast and the pitiless rain.
But still they are more contented than the children of God,
As long as they can pick up a worm from the sod,
Or anything they can get to eat,
Just, for instance, a stale crust of bread or a grain of wheat.
Oh! Think of the little birds in the time of the snow,
Also of the little street waifs, that are driven to and fro,
And trembling in the cold blast, and chilled to the bone,
For the want of food and clothing, and a warm home.
Besides think of the sorrows of the wandering poor,
That are wandering in the cold blast from door to door;
And begging, for Heaven's sake, a crust of bread,
And alas! Not knowing where to lay their head.
While the rich are well fed and covered from the cold,
While the poor are starving, both young and old;
Alas! It is the case in this boasted Christian land,
Where as the rich are told to be kind to the poor, is God's command.
Oh! Think of the working man when he's no work to do,
Who's got a wife and family, perhaps four or two,
And the father searching for work, and no work can be had,
The thought, I'm sure, 'tis enough to drive the poor man mad.
Because for his wife and family he must feel,
And perhaps the thought thereof will cause him to steal
Bread for his family, that are starving at home,
While the thought thereof makes him sigh heavily and groan.
Alas! The pangs of hunger are very hard to hide,
And few people can their temper control,
Or become reconciled to their fate,
Especially when they cannot find anything to eat.
Oh! Think of the struggles of the poor to make a living,
Because the rich unto them seldom are giving;
Wereas they are told he that giveth to the poor lendeth unto the Lord,
But alas! they rather incline their money to hoard.
Then theres the little news-vendors in the street,
Running about perhaps with bare feet;
And if the rich chance to see such creatures in the street,
In general they make a sudden retreat.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Very Thing That Makes You Rich
My father told me, lying on his bed of death,
"boy," he says, "woman she's gonna make it, don't fool your self
'cause she's got something to make a man lay that money, uh, right in her hand
And the very thing that makes her rich will make you poor
The very thing that makes her rich will make you poor"
That's right!
Well, i put you behind the wheel of a deuce and a quarter, yes i did
Had you living like a rich man's daughter, yes i did, i sure did
While you were living high on the hog
You had me down here scuffling like a dog
Well, the very thing that makes you rich makes me poor
The very thing that makes you rich makes me poor
Don't you never ever make such a bad mistake
You know i'd rather climb into bed with a rattlesnake
Then to work hard every day bringing that woman all my pay
The very thing that makes you rich makes me poor,
Makes me so damn poor
The thing that makes her rich makes me poor
The very thing that makes you rich make me poor
Very thing that makes you rich makes me poor
Makes me so damned poor
Money won't change it, no no...
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tears Of The Poor Man
The tears of the poor are
The drinks of the rich,
Yet the shedding of blood
Is the rich man's headache...
And what of the poor man's justice?
In truth, water is too cool
To bring forth your anguish!
Fire is the only solution!
Drink fire to end your injustice.
Silence is each lover's desire,
Yet the poor man's unbearable pain.
Making a din is the only right choice
To put forth your final demand.
Dew is but the conspiracy
Hatched between the rich and their kings,
While morning is but the first step
Of each poor man's sufferings...
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tears of the poor man (alternative version)
The tears of the poor are
The drinks of the rich,
Yet the shedding of blood
Is the rich man's headache...
And what of the poor man's justice?
In truth, water is too cool
To bring forth your anguish!
Fire is the only solution!
Drink fire to end your injustice.
Silence is each lover's desire,
Yet the poor man's unbearable pain.
Making a din is the only right choice
To put forth your final demand.
Dew is but the conspiracy
Hatched between the rich and their kings,
While morning is but the first step
Of each poor man's sufferings..
poem by Abdul Wahab
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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