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letra de no buyers - thomas hardy

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 apr-n 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 apr-n till it clings. —
so, step by step, they move with their merchandize
and n0body buys

- thomas hardy

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