Piteous the Legion

Sweep then across the flowing sea of time to stand unseen amid a stinking horde and there behold the rich who turn away or groveling poor that vaguely beckon— surveying misery's grimy bounds of each. Wretched feeble ones of withered limb and clouded eye—ladies in their rags— ignored by ones who might have paused and bent but never did, to burden beggars' bowls, nudging them from darkness into light.