Alms

You touch your forelock, bow your matted head
Before the prancing throng of fools in silk
And velvet, grateful for the bit of bread
You have this day. They notice not your ilk;
Their minds are bent on pleasure like the hounds
That merry made by ale within their dish
Make chasing of their tails in frantic rounds.
They pass and note you not; it is their wish
To see not that which doth offend their eye
With poverty or pain. Again you turn
Toward home, clutching that crust both hard and dry
Which twelve hours honest toil for you did earn.
Yet still you shall sleep hungered on this day
For meeting of one needier on your way.