In the dark night of prison comes release, In the black midnight still the cock will crow. There is a help that the abandoned know Deep in the heart, that conquerors cannot feel. Abide in hope the turning of the wheel, The luck will alter and the star will rise. His presence seemed to change before their eyes. The old, bent, ragged, glittering, wandering fellow, With thready blood-streaks in the rided yellow Of cheek and eye, seemed changed to one who held Earth and the spirit like a king of eld. He spoke again: "You have been kind," said he. "In your own trouble you have thought of me. God will repay. To him who gives is given, Corn, water, wine, the world, the starry heaven." Then, like a poor old man, he took his way Back to the city, while the showman gazed After his figure like a man amazed. _The Wife:_ I think that traveller was an angel sent. _The Showman:_ A most strange man. I wonder what he meant. _The Wife:_ Comfort was what he meant, in our distress. _The Showman:_ No words of his can make our trouble less. _The Wife:_ O, Will, he made me feel the luck would change. Look at him, husband; there is something strange About him there; a robin redbreast comes Hopping about his feet as though for crumbs, And little long-tailed tits and wrens that sing Perching upon him. _The Showman:_ What a wondrous thing! I've read of such, but never seen it. _The Wife:_ Look, These were the dishes and the food he took. _The Showman:_ Yes; those were they. What of it? _The Wife:_ Did he eat? _The Showman:_ Yes; bread and cheese; he would not touch the meat _The Wife:_ But see, the cheese is whole, the loaf unbroken, And both are fresh. And see, another token: Those hard green apples that the farmer gave Have grown to these gold globes, like Blenheims brave; And look, how came these plums of Pershore here? _The Showman:_ We have been sitting with a saint, my dear. _The Wife._ Look at the butterflies! Like floating flowers Came butterflies, the souls of summer hours, Fluttering about the van; Red Admirals rich, Scarlet and pale on breathing speeds of pitch, Brimstones, like yellow poppy petals blown, Brown ox-eyed Peacocks in their purpled roan, Blue, silvered things that haunt the grassy chalk, Green Hairstreaks bright as green shoots on a stalk, And that dark prince, the oakwood haunting thing Dyed with blue burnish like the mallard's wing. "He was a saint of God," the showman cried.