Beneath a row of trees there stand some seats,
And there the old men sit on hour by hour,
Their faces patient, sorrowful, or dour,
Watching the traffic up and down the streets.
One reads a paper with a peering eye,
Some smoke, some talk, some idly sit and stare
About them, seeing changes everywhere,
And in a dull resentment asking why.
And some are ragged, rheumy-eyed and bent,
And one is deaf, one sad, another lame—
A sudden pity fills my heart with shame
At striding by so young and confident.
—Christine Comber.