"‘Who are you that so strangely woke, And raised a fine hand?’ Poverty wears a scarlet cloke In my land.‘Duchies of dreamland, emerald, rose Lie at your command?’ Poverty like a princess goes In my land.‘Wherefore the mask of silken lace Tied with a golden band?’ Poverty walks with wanton grace In my land.‘Why do you softly, richly speak Rhythm so sweetly-scanned?’ Poverty hath the Gaelic and Greek In my land.‘There’s a far-off scent about you seems Born in Samarkand.’ Poverty hath luxurious dreams In my land.‘You have wounds that like passion-flowers you hide: I cannot understand.’ Poverty hath one name with Pride In my land.‘Oh! Will you draw your last sad breath ’Mid bitter bent and sand?’ Poverty begs from none but Death In my land."