He leant against a lamp-post, lost
In some mysterious reverie:
His head was bowed; his arms were crossed;
He yawned, and glanced evasively:
Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put
Them back again, and scratched his side--
Shifted his weight from foot to foot,
And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed.
Grotesque of form and face and dress,
And picturesque in every way--
A figure that from day to day
Drooped with a limper laziness;
A figure such as artists lean,
In pictures where distress is seen,
Against low hovels where we guess
No happiness has ever been.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
He paints a vivid picture of the idle man- I wonder if we see him differently- I see a corrupt man waiting to do something nefarious from the shadows where he waits