Classic Poem

Its shadow makes a sheltered place
All through the burning summer day.
There at the foot, secure from sun,
The ragged little children play.

And in the winter huddled birds
Take refuge from the windward side,
When driving snows make bleak the plain,
And herald holy Christmas-tide.

The bleeding Christ that hangs above
To bid the passer stop and pray,
Smiles through his bitter agony
On such small, tender things as they!