The Cold Within-James Patrick KinneySix Humans trapped by happenstanceIn bleak and Bitter cold.Each one possessed a stick of woodor so the story toldTheir dying fire in need of logsBut the first one held hers back,For , of the faces round the fireShe noticed one was black.The next man looking cross the waySaw one not of his churchAnd could not bring himself to giveThe fire his stick of birch.The third one sat in tattered clothes He gave his coat a hitchWhy should his log be put in fireTo warm the idle rich?The rich man just sat back and thoughtOf the wealth he had in storeAnd how to keep what he had earnedFrom the lazy, shiftless poorThe black man's face bespoke revengeAs the fire passed from his sightFor all he saw in his stick of woodWas a chance to spite the whiteThe last man of this forlorn groupDid nought except for gainGiving only to those who gave Was how he played the gameTheir logs held tight in death's still handsWas proof of human sinThey did not die from the cold withoutThe died from the cold within.I want the critical appreciation ( Literary qualities ) ​