  He stands in crowded city street, Poor, tired, little Joe, And sees the people pass and meet While moments come and go. He holds sweet flowers in his hand, Poor, patient, little Joe, And wonders who can understand His poverty and woe. “Please won’t you buy my blossoms bright?” Cries hopeful, little Joe, While daylight fades and sunset light Floods stirring streets below. But no one lingers, no one cares For homeless, little Joe; When mother breathed his name in prayers He was too small to know. When father took him on his knee, Dear, little baby Joe, He used to crow in childish glee But that was long ago. The night grows dark, and no one hears Poor, heartsick, little Joe; He puts his flowers away with tears And turns his foot-steps slow. He passes mansions grand and tall, Poor, homesick, little Joe, And hopes that men within the hall Will gifts of love bestow. Sometimes he stops to watch the lights, Poor, lonely, little Joe, And sees some whirling, dazzling sights While dancers come and go. In homes he hears the child-like noise, Poor, orphaned, little Joe, And wonders if their little boys To great, good men will grow. He seeks, at last, a sheltering shed, Poor, hungry, little Joe, And makes, of tattered coat, a bed, While tear-drops freely flow. And: “Now I lay me down to sleep,” Says drowsy, little Joe, “And pray the Lord my soul to keep,” He whispers, soft and low. “If I should die before I wake,” Breathes tired, little Joe, “I pray the Lord my soul to take,” And it was even so. Transcriber Notes: Uncertain or antiquated spellings or ancient words were not corrected. Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered. |
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