My lady gives such blessed alms,
More precious far than golden dole—
The friendly word, the tender smile,
The gentle, gracious courtesy.
She doth surround you with such grace
Of look, and word, and action, that,
Like ice-bound brooks that stumbling go
On thro' the winter's dark and cold,
Till Spring, with fingers light and warm,
Stoops down and draws the glittering bolts,
And sets the brooklet bubbling free
And leaping light with cadenced steps—
To some poor stranger heart, may be,
Had chanced upon a wintry time,
Receiving from my lady's eyes
The largesse of her kindly smile,
Feels Springtime warmth come creeping back,
And all its burdens strangely light."
"The least of these, the least of these!"
I wonder if my lady thinks
How once our Saviour wander'd up
And down the world in stranger guise:
How when she cheers a lonely heart—
She gives a hungry heart to eat;
She gives to me who thirsts, to drink—
She sitteth down to sup with him
Who said, "Ye did it to the least,
Ye did it also unto me."
