Classic Poem

Who has not waked to list the busy sounds
Of summer morning in the sultry smoke
Of noisy London? On the pavement hot
The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face
And tattered covering, shrilly hawks his trade,
Rousing the sleepy housemaid. At the door
The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell
Proclaims the dustman's office, while the street
Is lost in clouds impervious. Now begins
The din of hackney coaches, wagons, carts;
While tin-men's shops, and noisy trunk-makers,
Knife-grinders, coopers, squealing cork-cutters,
Fruit-barrows, and the hunger-giving cries
Of vegetable vendors, fill the air.
Now every shop displays its varied trade,
And the fresh-sprinkled pavement cools the feet
Of early walkers. At the private door
The ruddy housemaid twirls the busy mop,
Annoying the smart 'prentice, or neat girl
Tripping with bandbox lightly. Now the sun
Darts burning splendour on the glittering pane,
Save where the canvas awning throws a shade
On the gay merchandise. Now spruce and trim
In shops where beauty smiles with industry,
Sits the smart damsel, while the passenger
Peeps through the window, watching every charm.
Now pastry dainties catch the eyes minute
Of hummy insects, while the slimy snare
Waits to enthral them. Now the lamp-lighter
Mounts the slight ladder, nimbly venturous,
To trim the half-filled lamp, while at his feet
The pot-boy yells discordant. All along
The sultry pavement, the old-clothes man cries
In tone monotonous, and sidelong views
The area for his traffic. Now the bag
Is slily opened, and the half-worn suit
(Sometimes the pilfered treasure of the base
Domestic spoiler) for one half its worth
Sinks in the green abyss. The porter now
Bears his huge load along the burning way,
And the poor poet wakes from busy dreams
To paint the summer morning.