A Load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs <br />Labours along the street in the rain: <br />With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs. -- <br />The man foots in front of the horse with a shambling sway <br />At a slower tread than a funeral train, <br />While to a dirge-like tune he chants his wares, <br />Swinging a Turk's-head brush (in a drum-major's way <br />When the bandsmen march and play). <br /> <br />A yard from the back of the man is the whiteybrown pony's nose: <br />He mirrors his master in every item of pace and pose: <br />He stops when the man stops, without being told, <br />And seems to be eased by a pause; too plainly he's old, <br />Indeed, not strength enough shows <br />To steer the disjointed waggon straight, <br />Which wriggles left and right in a rambling line, <br />Deflected thus by its own warp and weight, <br />And pushing the pony with it in each incline. <br /> <br />The woman walks on the pavement verge, <br />Parallel to the man: <br />She wears an apron white and wide in span, <br />And carries a like Turk's-head, but more in nursing-wise: <br />Now and then she joins in his dirge, <br />But as if her thoughts were on distant things, <br />The rain clams her apron till it clings. -- <br />So, step by step, they move with their merchandize, <br />And nobody buys.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/no-buyers/
