in the bleak and bitter cold.
Each one held a log of wood,
or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of wood,
the first man held his back.
For of the faces round the flames,
he noticed one was black.
The second man sat back and looked,
but saw none of his church.
He could not bring himself to give
the fire his stick of birch.
The thrid man sat in tattered rags,
as he gave his coat a hitch.
He simply would not use his log,
to warm the idle rich.
The rich man sat and thought of all
the wealth he had in store.
And how to keep what he had earned
from the lazy, shiftless, poor.
The black man's eyes bespoke revenge
as the fire died from sight.
All he saw within his wood
was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group,
did nothing except for gain.
Giving only to those who'd give
was the way he played the game.
The fire died, the men grew cold,
Icicles formed on their chin.
They would not die from the cold outside,
They would die from the cold within.
is where I got the poem.