twain,
All London vanished away; and the morn of the summer rain
Would waft us the scent of the hay; or the first faint yellow leaves
Would flutter adown before us and tell of the acres of sheaves.

All this hath our lawyer eaten, and to-morrow must we go
To a room near my master’s shop, in the purlieus of Soho.
No words of its shabby meanness!  But that is our prison-cell
In the jail of weary London.  Therein for us must dwell
The hope of the world that shall be, that rose a glimmering spark
As the last thin flame of our pleasure sank quavering in the dark.

Again the rich man jeereth: “The man is a coward, or worse—
He bewails his feeble pleasure; he quails before the curse
Which many a man endureth with calm and smiling face.”
Nay, the man is a man, by your leave!  Or put yourself in his place,
And see if the tale reads better.  The haven of rest destroyed,
And nothing left of the life that was once so well enjoyed
But leave to live and labour, and the glimmer of hope deferred.
Now know I the cry of the poor no more as a story heard,
But rather a wordless wail forced forth from the weary heart.
Now, now when hope ariseth I shall surely know my part.