The Avenue is lined with glass
And walls with climbing tops—
But just around the corner lies
The Street of Little Shops.

Hernando with his baker-cart,
Luigi with his fruits,
And blind old Thomas turning soles,
And Michael blacking boots;

And Pedro héaping popcorn up
In little, fragrant piles,
And Cho San selling daffodils,
And violets—and smiles.

The Avenue is straight and fine—
But when my journey stops
I hope to find a corner in
The Street of Little Shops.