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Robert D. Winthrop

Shine, Mister?

Along the snow-blown thoroughfare
He went; his dirty feet were bare;
And few could hear him whisper there,
Shine, Mister?

His hands were cold; his face was blue;
He shivered with each breath he drew,
Yet whispered to the passing few,
Shine, Mister?

He stumbled through an open door
And lay upon the dirty floor,
So cold that he could say no more,
Shine, Mister?

He's dead to all the human race,
But you can see that cherub's face
Smiling where you can't erase
That shine, mister.