Gray spectacle of poverty and woe,
A wretched sledge, dragged by one weary man,
Slowly across the snow.
And on the sledge, blown by the winter wind,
Lay a poor coffin, very rude and bare,
And he who drew it bent before his load,
With dull and sullen air.
The Emperor stopped and beckoned on the man;
“Who is’t thou bearest to the grave?” he said.
“Only a soldier, sire!” the short reply,