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