The poor man’s candle flickers out in gloom;
And in that darkness starving children weep,
While in the palace revels high they keep.
The rich man’s carriage dashes gaily past,
The beggar’s lonely corpse to earth is cast.
The pallid angel of Gethsemane
Tears doth not heed nor flowers, nor glory’s plea.
The poor find rest in his cold arms alone,
For in Death’s shroud the high and low are one.
Though lightning-winged the winds cry o’er the moor,