Pied Piper

His passion was people, the ones he had seen

And the ones he would track in a wayfaring dream.

With a blithesome disdain of the toils of the day,

He would hail the new dawn and be up and away.

The girl in the valley, the man in the mart

And the child in the cradle he took to his heart.

He would touch them and leave on the fugitive round

Of all the far places where people are found.

Then. . .a brawling night wind in hideous jest

Snuffed out the candle and darkened the quest.

A concourse of people stands bowed at high noon

For a nameless Pied Piper gone down with the moon.