The World is poor, and Love is lonely, He sits alone, and has no toy; He sits beside a dying fire, And sucks his thumb for all his joy. What thoughts have we for song or beauty, In this old World, so sad and poor? We count and fear to spend our pence, And think no more of bird or flower. The World is poor, and Love is lonely, His dying fire no longer heats: He dreams of sugar, cakes and toys, And sucks his thumb for all his sweets. |