THE TRAMP
ON a stone by the wayside, half-naked and cold,
And soured in the struggle of life,
With his parchment envelope grown wrinkled and old,
Sat the Tramp, with his crust and his knife.
And the leaves of the forest fell round him in showers,—
And the sharp, stinging flurries of snow,
That had warned off the robins to summer bowers,
Admonished him, too, he should go.