You, at whose table I have sat, some distant eve

beside the road, and eaten and you pitied me

to be driven an aimless way before the pitiless winds,

how much ye have given and knew not, pitying foolishly!

For not alone the bread I broke, but I tasted too

all your unwitting lives and knew the narrow soul

that bodies it in the landmarks of your fields,

and broods dumbly within your little seasons’ round,

where, after sowing, comes the short-lived summer’s
mirth,

and, after harvesting, the winter’s lingering dream,

half memory and regret, half hope, crouching beside

the hearth that is your only centre of life and dream.

And knowing the world how limitless and the way how
long,

and the home of man how feeble and builded on the winds,

I have lived your life, that eve, as you might never live

knowing, and pity you, if you should come to know.