The poem
WITHIN the iron cities One walked unknown for years, In his heart the pity of pities That grew for human tears.
When love and grief were ended The flower of pity grew: By unseen hands ’t was tended And fed with holy dew.
Though in his heart were barred in The blooms of beauty blown, Yet he who grew the garden Could call no flower his own.
For by the hands that watered, The blooms that opened fair Through frost and pain were scattered To sweeten the dead air.