Classic Poem

I fear the poor.
When I look in their faces, pinched and wan,
I shrink; my self-sufficiency is gone.
The consciousness sweeps through me, then:
These are the noblemen.

I fear the poor.
When I dole out to them as charity,
Some part of what belongs not unto me,
I marvel—cannot understand:
Why do they not demand?

I fear the poor.
I knew three brothers: two, that one might rise,
Were willing drudges; them dared he despise.
They bore it and forebore to show:
The highest are below.