The Pauper Poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter

It dawned a morn to make a heart despair,
East was the wind and chill the April air.
No beast was out save one poor starveling hound,
Who for his supper nosed the muddy ground.
Beside the river, where its sluggish length
Did darkly coil and twist in wat'ry strength
Beneath the Minster Bridge, then smoothly ran
In unobstructed course, there slept a man.
Forlorn and ragged, destitute and old,
Where gentle sleep had hushed him in her hold;
From his desire for the Thames' chill breast,
She drew him down and lulled him into rest.
The starveling hound, in misery extreme,
Crept up to share the shadow of his dream,
And gave the cheek, low resting on a stone,
The only kiss that cheek had ever known.
Nor did sweet sleep forget for one brief span
To bless the hound as she had blessed the man,
For on each face there dwelt supreme content;
Perchance, to some Elysian fields they went.

The starveling hound did lie with twitching feet,
And tail slow wagging on the muddy street;
The outcast man flung forth a circling arm,
To hold the brute, or some sweet dream, from harm.
And so they lay, forgot by all save sleep,
Beside the river passing dumb and deep;
There by the bridge beneath the Minster towers
That held the mighty city's numbered hours.
Through fair Elysian fields they joyous ran,
The starveling hound beside the outcast man;
But came the Law, with rough, unkindly hand,
To thrust them forth from their dream fairyland.
It bid the man go forth in the chill night,
But kept the dog in pity for its plight.
Moved on once more, he went his weary round,
And in his soul desired to be the hound.
In endless tramp he did the day endure,
And came at eve before the workhouse door,
And there, in doubt and hesitation, stayed,
Like one who from his doom creeps back afraid,
From each broad window looked an agèd face,
With longing eyes that held in dim embrace
The busy street from which they were apart,
Old men who looked and longed with aching heart.

Builders of cities these, well might they look,
As doth a writer who hath writ his book
And looks with love upon the printed page!
But these poor workers never shared the wage.
Those shaking hands, now raised their brow to shade,
A thousand lives oft leant to them for aid;
They set the city's pulse to throb and flow,
The ships upon the waters forth to go,
The wheels to turn, the churches' bells to sound,
They drew ripe corn from the reluctant ground.
Poor crippled hands, now raised their eyes to shade,
Those weary eyes that watched the man afraid,
Who stood reluctant by the workhouse gate.
Poor eyes, poor hands, they seem to him to wait—
For what save death and then the pauper's grave,
More swift, more kind, the flow of Thames' dark wave.
Once more he stood by grey Westminster towers,
And heard the chime toll forth man's passing hours.
And here again he courted death, and went
With joyous speed to that chill element.
His weary head, ah! never did it rest
Upon so soft or so belov'd a breast;
From it he drew a measure, long and deep,
The welcome draught to bring him rest and sleep.

He almost had forgot age, grief, and cold,
The numbing hunger that did him enfold,
When came the Law, with rough unkindly hand,
And bore the wretched body back to land.
And chid him sore for daring to aspire
To end a life that no one did desire,
So let him go; it thought him well content
To be indulged with short imprisonment.
Left him reluctant by the workhouse gate.
It opens, clangs. He is within to wait,
For what, save death and then the pauper's grave,
More swift, more kind, the flow of Thames' dark wave.