(See page [577])
Your songs at night a drunkard sings,
Stones, sticks and rags your daily flowers;
Like fishes’ lips, a bluey white,
Such lips, poor mites, are yours.
Poor little things, so sad and solemn,
Whose lives are passed in human crowds—
When in the water I can see
Heaven with a flock of clouds.
Poor little mites that breathe foul air,