Poor Peter

    Blind Peter Piper used to play
    All up and down the city;
    I'd often meet him on my way,
    And throw a coin for pity.
    But all amid his sparkling tones
    His ear was quick as any
    To catch upon the cobble-stones
    The jingle of my penny.

    And as upon a day that shone
    He piped a merry measure:
    "How well you play!" I chanced to say;
    Poor Peter glowed with pleasure.
    You'd think the words of praise I spoke
    Were all the pay he needed;
    The artist in the player woke,
    The penny lay unheeded.

    Now Winter's here; the wind is shrill,
    His coat is thin and tattered;
    Yet hark! he's playing trill on trill
    As if his music mattered.
    And somehow though the city looks
    Soaked through and through with shadows,
    He makes you think of singing brooks
    And larks and sunny meadows.

    Poor chap! he often starves, they say;
    Well, well, I can believe it;
    For when you chuck a coin his way
    He'll let some street-boy thieve it.
    I fear he freezes in the night;
    My praise I've long repented,
    Yet look! his face is all alight . . .
    Blind Peter seems contented.