The Wanderer Ii Poem by William Canton

He knows no home; he only knows
Hunger and cold and pain;
The four winds are his bedfellows;
His sleep is dashed with rain.
'Tis nought to him who fails, who thrives;
He neither hopes nor fears;
Some dim primeval impulse drives
His footsteps down the years.
He could not, if he would, forsake
Lone road and field and tree.
Yet, think! it takes a God to make
E'en such a waif as he.
And once a maiden, asked for bread,
Saw, as she gave her dole,
No friendless vagrant, but, instead,
An indefeasible Soul.