Shivering with fever, naked, old;
Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,
The hot wind fevered him fivefold.
"He gazed upon me as I passed,
And murmured, 'Help me, or I die!'
To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,
Saw him look eased, and hurried by.
* * * *
"Once every year, when carols wake,
On earth, the Christmas-night's repose,