Classic Poem

O, Mother, in the street to-day
I saw an old, old man;
His eyes were sad; I stopped my play,
And to his side I ran;
Upon his back a heavy sack;
His beard was white, his eyes were black.

I touched this traveler's staff; I said:
— What have you in your bag? —
The old man smiled and shook his head;
— My people's load I drag;
The staff of faith is in my hand;
My son, I seek the Holy Land. —

— And who is King, — I wondering said,
The old man smiled and shook his head;
— His name I dare not speak —
But there my sack and staff shall fall,
And I'll grow young and straight and tall. —

With age he trembled as he spoke,
And said: — I shall not die. —
Though worn and ragged was his cloak,
He said: — A prince am I.
My son, this wonder you will see, —
He said, — for you'll be there with me. —