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Poem	Blind Peter Piper used to play All up and down the city; I'd often meet him on my way, And throw a coin for pity. But all amid his sparkling tones His ear was quick as any To catch upon the cobble-stones The jingle of my penny. And as upon a day that shone He piped a merry measure: "How well you play!" I chanced to say; Poor Peter glowed with pleasure. You'd think the words of praise I spoke Were all the pay he needed; The artist in the player woke, The penny lay unheeded. Now Winter's here; the wind is shrill, His coat is thin and tattered; Yet hark! he's playing trill on trill As if his music mattered. And somehow though the city looks Soaked through and through with shadows, He makes you think of singing brooks And larks and sunny meadows. Poor chap! he often starves, they say; Well, well, I can believe it; For when you chuck a coin his way He'll let some street-boy thieve it. I fear he freezes in the night; My praise I've long repented, Yet look! his face is all alight . . . Blind Peter seems contented.
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