Where do you live—'neath the street,
Or attic above the stair?
Where'er it be, little maid,
My heart goes out to you there.
Some pass who turn a deaf ear
To your shrill voice when you call;
But there's One hears, never fear,
Whose love is greater than all.
He alone hears your low sob,
Lonely at night in your bed,
With none to kiss you to sleep
Or smooth the curls of your head.
Sometimes in dreams do you see
Visions of dainties high piled?
Sometime may that dream be true,
Tired-out, motherless child.
O mothers, kissing to rest,
Praying to God o'er your dears,
Pray for these waifs of the world,
Unmothered in their young years.
Pray, too, that on that dread day
When judgments fall on earth's sons,
Censure-free we then may stand,
Uncharged by these little ones.
When for deeds done in the flesh
Each soul its place is assigned,
Pray no child may accuse you
Of being cold or unkind.
One passed you last night at dusk,
One whom the world brands with shame;
Say, was it then all her fault?
God, who knows, may not so blame.
Once as this child of the street
She strove for bread, pure of heart,
Till hope died in her young breast,
When mankind failed in its part.
And now if sinning she goes,
Fighting her battle alone,
Remember, she asked for bread,
And the world gave her a stone.