They never knew I lived, but trod my shadow, Brushed at the laces that I tried to sell.... O God, could I but then have seen a meadow, Or walked erect in woods, it had been well, These wretched things I might have then forgiven, Nor spread my shadow betwixt them and heaven.... I failed at hawking.... somehow, I never sold.... I wasn’t shaped for it by Him that makes. I tried with matches, toys, sham studs of gold,— I failed; it needs a fakir to sell fakes. The bitter pennies that I saved for buying Were going to hell, and my whole soul was dying. I tried to steal a sleep, without my penny, One night at John’s. I hadn’t fed all day. It was a shrewish winter night, and rainy. John found me out and swore. I said I’d pay Next afternoon, or die—he said I’d die.... O, I was longing for a place to lie!... He pushed me to the door and opened it, His stinking arm was smothered round my face, And then I raged and swung my crutch and hit, He only laughed and knocked me into space. When I came to, Joe Cluer bathed my head, And he had paid my penny, so he said. Joe Cluer was a man—God help him now, Pneumonia got him down last year and took him. But he had colored chalks, and taught me how To draw on stones; sometimes the d.t.’s shook him So hard he couldn’t draw, himself, but show The way it’s done.... That’s how I made a go. And we’d steal out together, he and I, And draw before the crowds began to come. At first he helped me. But as time went by Drink made him worse, and I would help him some: I drew him six on paper, in the end, And he would take them out, and just pretend To draw a little on the dewy stones.... But it was useless, for the stones were wet, And he just wasted chalk, and chilled his bones, His hand shook ... O, I can see him yet ... Cramping his fingers down with hellish pain To write out “My Own Talent,” large and plain. Sometimes, to go out early, it was fun, When it was not too cold, on autumn days When leaves were rustling downward, and the sun Came rising red and paley through the haze.... The streets were fairly quiet, the people few, There was a smell of dead leaves damp with dew.... And I’d draw, singing, places I had seen, The places that I walked when I was free, And of my colors best I loved the green,— O, it would break my heart to draw a tree Growing in fields, and shaking off the sun, With cattle standing under, one and one.... And roads I loved to draw,—the white roads winding Away up, beautifully, through blue hills; Queer, when I drew them I was always minding The happy things, forgetting all the ills, And I’d think I was young again, and strong, Rising at smell of dawn to walk along....