Just at the corner of the street,
Where meet the tides of human feet,
She sits; a pity on her face,
That will not pass nor change its place,
Rests, mixing with a look that fain
Would hint of uncomplaining pain;
And that expectant gaze that lies
Forever in unseeing eyes,
As if in thought she, too, must wait
Beside the thronging city gate,
For Him, whose gentle finger-tips
Once drew from eyes their long eclipse.
All this is on her pale sad face,
As still her thin white fingers trace
The words her patient lips repeat
To passers-by upon the street,
Who hear them not, or, if they hear,
It is but with a feverish ear,
That, deadened with the city's din,
Has lost the power of drinking in
Those quiet messages that speak
Of comfort to the worn and weak.
Thus, day by day, she sits and reads,
A tone within her voice that pleads;
And, just at times for listeners
Who look up to those eyes of hers,
Children, who gather round her knee,
In silent awe to hear and see,
And watch with motionless surprise
Her speaking lips and sightless eyes.
Is it the story as of old,
In answer to the over-bold,
That Truth, before she bows her head
To enter with her gracious tread,
To give her welcome sweet and fair,
Must find a child's heart beating there?