The driver rubbed at his nettly chin With a huge, loose forefinger, crooked and black, And his wobbly, violet lips sucked in, And puffed out again and hung down slack: One fang shone through his lop-sided smile, In his little pouched eye flickered years of guile. And the horse, poor beast, it was ribbed and forked, And its ears hung down, and its eyes were old, And its knees were knuckly, and as we talked It swung the stiff neck that could scarcely hold Its big, skinny head up -- then I stepped in, And the driver climbed to his seat with a grin. God help the horse and the driver too, And the people and beasts who have never a friend, For the driver easily might have been you, And the horse be me by a different end. And nobody knows how their days will cease, And the poor, when they're old, have little of peace. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ASIAN BIRDS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES WORD-PORTRAITS: THE DESCRIPTION OF SIR GEOFFREY CHAUCER by ROBERT GREENE THE REALM OF FANCY by JOHN KEATS EPITAPH (ON A COMMONPLACE PERSON WHO DIED IN BED) by AMY LEVY AN OLD WOMAN (2) by MOTHER GOOSE RICHARD CORY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |