On Seeing a Street Cleaner at Work

Street Cleaner with your horse and cart
'Tis thus you earn your crust.
And they, who mock you, have [unclear: no] heart;
That say your brains are rust.

I, too, could mock you if I had
A home to call my own,
Someone whose life I could make glad . . .
Where has my Loved One flown?
With you. while in my grief I mope,
My heart still labours on,
To clear the wreck-strewn path of Hope
Until my life is gone.

—M.L.