I bear them in my heart along.
Margaret Widdemer
THE BEGGARS
The little pitiful, worn, laughing faces,
Begging of Life for Joy!
I saw the little daughters of the poor,
Tense from the long day’s working, strident, gay,
Hurrying to the picture-place. There curled
A hideous flushed beggar at the door,
Trading upon his horror, eyeless, maimed,