For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 155
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,--
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.


VI


The leper raised not the gold from the dust:
"Better to me the poor man's crust,
Better the blessing of the poor, 160
Though I turn me empty from his door;
That is no true alms which the hand can hold;
He gives only the worthless gold
Who gives from a sense of duty; 165
But he who gives a slender mite,
And gives to that which is out of sight.
That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty
Which runs through, ail and doth all unite,--
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, 170
The heart outstretches its eager palms,
For a god goes with it and makes it store
To the soul that was starving in darkness before."


PRELUDE TO PART SECOND


Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,