Blind Peter Piper used to play <br />All up and down the city; <br />I'd often meet him on my way, <br />And throw a coin for pity. <br />But all amid his sparkling tones <br />His ear was quick as any <br />To catch upon the cobble-stones <br />The jingle of my penny. <br /> <br />And as upon a day that shone <br />He piped a merry measure: <br />"How well you play!" I chanced to say; <br />Poor Peter glowed with pleasure. <br />You'd think the words of praise I spoke <br />Were all the pay he needed; <br />The artist in the player woke, <br />The penny lay unheeded. <br /> <br />Now Winter's here; the wind is shrill, <br />His coat is thin and tattered; <br />Yet hark! he's playing trill on trill <br />As if his music mattered. <br />And somehow though the city looks <br />Soaked through and through with shadows, <br />He makes you think of singing brooks <br />And larks and sunny meadows. <br /> <br />Poor chap! he often starves, they say; <br />Well, well, I can believe it; <br />For when you chuck a coin his way <br />He'll let some street-boy thieve it. <br />I fear he freezes in the night; <br />My praise I've long repented, <br />Yet look! his face is all alight . . . <br />Blind Peter seems contented.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poor-peter/
