Lingers, a matter of vague compassion,
Out in the darkness across the way;
Out beyond the warmth and the glitter,
The light where luxury’s laughter rings,
Lazarus waits, where the wind is bitter,
Receiving his evil things.
Still ye find him when, breathless, burning,
Summer flames upon square and street,
When the fortunate ones of the earth are turning
Their thoughts to meadows and meadow-sweet;