Are vagabonds of blameless streets
aimless in their sore misery?
Or do they follow headless priests
who promise heaven easily?
Some take to comfort readily,
Idly basking in low sunshine,
while all around wilts steadily;
Pray never me, nor one of mine.
The effort made may hint at worth,
but mere intent has little wealth.
Judge not by eye, nor value girth,
no silver weight should weigh itself.
Of all the truest signs to seek,
a good kind heart will point the way;
More often found amongst the meek
than with the ones who claim the day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Third stanza shines out. t x