Poor Peter

Blind Peter Piper used to play

All up and down the city;

I'd often meet him on my way,

And throw a coin for pity.

But all amid his sparkling tones

His ear was quick as any

To catch upon the cobble-stones

The jingle of my penny.

And as upon a day that shone

He piped a merry measure:

“How well you play!” I chanced to say;

Poor Peter glowed with pleasure.

You'd think the words of praise I spoke

Were all the pay he needed;

The artist in the player woke,

The penny lay unheeded.

Now Winter's here; the wind is shrill,

His coat is thin and tattered;

Yet hark! he's playing trill on trill

As if his music mattered.

And somehow though the city looks

Soaked through and through with shadows,

He makes you think of singing brooks

And larks and sunny meadows.

Poor chap! he often starves, they say;

Well, well, I can believe it;

For when you chuck a coin his way

He'll let some street-boy thieve it.

I fear he freezes in the night;

My praise I've long repented,

Yet look! his face is all alight...

Blind Peter seems contented.