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Thomas Hardy - No Buyers
Work rating: Low

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.
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