And then sit back and hate the pallid faces,
And shut my eyes to warm them, if there’s sun,
And get the pennies saved for harder times,—
Winter in London is no joke, by crimes.
It’s hellish cold. Your hands turn blue at drawing.
You’re cramped; and frost goes cutting to your bones.
O you would pray to God for sun and thawing
If you had sat and dithered on these stones,
And wanted shoes and not known how to get them,
With these few clothes and winter rains to wet them.