The Promised Land
A little boy sitting out in the cold
He is only young, yet looks so old.
His eyes are large, but very sad
Why is he here, this poor young lad?
No smile is there upon his face
Sitting all alone and out of place
People walk past him all the day
With only a look, no words to say.
The boy he looks so tired and thin
His bones stick out through his pale skin
He holds out his hand for a morsel of bread
As it seems forever, since he was last fed.
If I could walk past this poor child
Sitting there so very meek and mild
I would offer him a helping hand
And take him to a promised land.
But just to see him sitting there
As people pass him by and stare;
They ignore the plight of this poor child
Looking so very meek and mild.
My helping hand, it came too late,
I realised he was at the pearly gate,
He lay there still with outstretched hand
He had finally reached the Promised Land.
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Comments about this poem (The Promised Land by Gillian Reynolds )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(27 January 1832 – 14 January 1898)
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