The Tramp’s Bed – I

 

What can this be here in this dusty loft,
What the light finds when I unclose the door,
This frame, this mould’ring loom, all covered o’er
With ceiling plaster and with cobwebs soft?
It is a bed, a gift from generous croft,
A wooden bed and stained with dirt and more;
A pallet stretched upon the rotting floor,
In whose grim arms have vagrants slumbered oft!
Bed, symbol of all ease and luxury,
Did comfort for the outcast in thee dwell?
What heartaches could thy dusty pillow tell!
What balm for feet, what bliss for soul in thee
From wandering in the lonely world at night
Did each tramp find and own till morning light.