Today I saw
A market cart going along the road,
High-piled and creaking with a sonsy load
Of cabbages.
The driver sat
Under a little tent himself had made
To give him shelter from the rain or shade
In summertime.
Such men as he,
Backed by the riches of a country side,
Should have kings' faces, full of jolly pride
In comeliness.
But he was tired
After a night's work under starlit skies,
And crouched like a poor slave, with anxious eyes
Turned citywards.