Here you will find the Poem The Poor Can Feed the Birds of poet John Shaw Neilson
Ragged, unheeded, stooping, meanly shod, The poor pass to the pond: not far away The spires go up to God. Shyly they come from the unpainted lane; Coats have they made of old unhappiness That keeps in every pain. The rich have fear, perchance their God is dim; ?Tis with the hope of stored-up happiness They build the spires to Him. The rich go out in clattering pomp and dare In the most holy places to insult The deep Benevolence there. But ?tis the poor who make the loving words. Slowly they stoop; it is a Sacrament: The poor can feed the birds. Old, it is old, this scattering of the bread, Deep as forgiveness, or the tears that go Out somewhere to the dead. The feast of love, the love that is the cure For all indignities?it reigns, it calls, It chains us to the pure. Seldom they speak of God, He is too dim; So without thought of after happiness They feed the birds for Him. The rich men walk not here on the green sod, But they have builded towers, the timorous That still go up to God. Still will the poor go out with loving words; In the long need, the need for happiness The poor can feed the birds.
