He leaned against a lamp-post, lost
…In some mysterious reverie:
His head was bowed; his arms were crossed;
…He yawned, and glanced evasively:
Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put
…Them back again, and scratched his side –
Shifted his weight from foot to foot,
...And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed.
Grotesque of form and face and dress,
…And picturesque in every way –
A figure that from day to day
…Drooped with a limper laziness;
A figure such as artists lean,
…In pictures where distress is seen.
Against low hovels where we guess
…No happiness has ever been.
The Bard on the Hill 
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