The keen wind scarred his naked breast.
I questioned him, and all the while
The quiet of a heart at rest
Shone in his secret patient smile.
Yes, he had come from hot Bengal,
From scorching plains to peaks of ice;
Took what was given as chance might fall,
And begged his little dole of rice.
“And have you friends, or any child?
Or any home?” He shook his head,