A load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs
   Labours along the street in the rain:
With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs. —
   The man foots in front of the horse with a shambling sway
At a slower tread than a funeral train,
   While to a dirge-like tune he chants his wares,
Swinging a Turk’s-head brush (in a drum-major’s way
   When the bandsmen march and play).

A yard from the back of the man is the whiteybrown pony’s nose:
   He mirrors his master in every item of pace and pose:
He stops when the man stops, without being told,
   And seems to be eased by a pause; too plainly he’s old,
Indeed, not strength enough shows
   To steer the disjointed waggon straight,
Which wriggles left and right in a rambling line,
   Deflected thus by its own warp and weight,
And pushing the pony with it in each incline.

The woman walks on the pavement verge,
   Parallel to the man:
She wears an apron white and wide in span,
   And carries a like Turk’s-head, but more in nursing-wise:
Now and then she joins in his dirge,
   But as if her thoughts were on distant things,
The rain clams her apron till it clings. —
   So, step by step, they move with their merchandize,
And nobody buys. 


This poem is in the public domain.