The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then, <br />He groped and fiddled doggedly along, <br />His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng <br />The stony peevishness of sightless men. <br />He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again, <br />Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song, <br />So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong, <br />You hardly could distinguish one in ten. <br />He stopped at last, and sat him on the sand, <br />And, grasping wearily his bread-winner, <br />Staring dim towards the blue immensity, <br />Then leaned his head upon his poor old hand. <br />He may have slept: he did not speak nor stir: <br />His gesture spoke a vast despondency.<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/croquis/
