Page:Poet Lore, volume 26, 1915.djvu/290

276 When Pity I met, poor child of the street,
 * And sad Hope, in rags, on the roadside,

I stopped on my way to bathe their feet,
 * And incense sweet floated far and wide.

Then was I put to death by order of the tyrant, And from my breast gush'd forth the torrent Which quench'd the ancient thirst of souls.

I was He to whom one prays at the slow close of day, And in a halo of love, from far away, My face floated moon-like to sorrowing souls.