Oh think, ye glad children of affluence, think,
As ye sit by the firelight's glow,
Yes, think, as it gleams on your carpeted floor,
Of the poor little feet in the snow.
Yes, think, as those gems glitter bright on thy hand,
With a light from the diamond's mine,
Of the little blue fingers benumbed with the cold,
That else were as dainty as thine.
God fashioned thee both—the poor, shivering child,
Alone in the cold winter night,