On the street corners, some

 Of the pretty gold

 Is sure to find its way

 Home in his hand.

 And many a winter day

 At some cab-stand,

 He’ll watch the cabmen feed

 The pigeon flocks,

 Or bid some liner speed

 From the icy docks.

56

 His rooms? I much regret

 You cannot see

 His rooms, but they were let

 With guarantee

 Of his seclusion there—

 Except myself.

 Each morning, table, chair,

 Lamp, hearth, and shelf,

 I rearrange, refreshen,

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