No Buyers

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