STREET MUSIC

There comes an old man to our street,

Dragging his knobby, lame old feet,

Once a week he comes and stands,

A concertina in his hands,

There in the gutter stops and plays,

No matter fine or rainy days

— Very humble and very old —

Pavement's for them who make so bold!

Prim, starched nurses, and ladies fair

With taffeta dresses and shining hair,

And gay little children, who break and run

To give him a penny — he seems to feel

( Out-at-elbows and out-at-heel )

That they've a right to the morning sun;

And so with gnarled old hands he'll play

For an hour, perhaps, then take his way,

Dragging his knobby, lame old feet

In the gutter of this quiet street.

There is no grudging in his eyes,

Nor anger, nor the least surprise

At the uneven scales of fate:

Glad of the sun, against the rain

Hunching his shoulders, age and pain

He takes as his appointed state,

And stands, like Lazarus, at the door

With the dread humility of the poor.