THE TRAMP

THE ragged sun, the wind-filled sky, The wet track and the empty car; The night-hung woods, and, raised on high, The lighted candle of a star. So reads his heraldry, who prowls On listless following of chance; Who, sullenly appraising, scowls On the rich dwelling’s circumstance. The cloud of smoke upon the hill, The rag left on the highway’s beat, The light o’er a deserted sill— These mark the passing of his feet. No strenuous call of noontime bells Vibrates through ether of his dreams; For him no clock the hour tells; For him no church’s spire gleams. Though from his thoughts undisciplined To warehouse and to street averse, He, in exchanges of his mind, Diverts him with a lavish purse— Diverts him with his social schemes, His plan against the existing plot; And what he, of his justice, deems Would—justice practised—be his lot. Of whence he comes, of where he goes— These things no human record keeps. What black unwritten deed he does, What pure fair hope within him sleeps. What strange mysterious power he wields, What undeveloped force to sway, None guess who see him cross the fields, Or plodding on his stealthy way. Only dead fires attest his life, Only dumb trees his brothers stand; He knows not home nor child, nor wife, Nor friendly grasp of any hand, Yet lays his scheme for daily food, Yet keeps him keen for filching pence For this ... o’er pipe and fire to brood— Spending imagined affluence!