Peace. A Study

He stood, a worn-out City clerk —
        Who'd toil'd, and seen no holiday,
    For forty years from dawn to dark —
        Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.
    He felt the salt spray on his lips;
        Heard children's voices on the sands;
    Up the sun's path he saw the ships
        Sail on and on to other lands;
    And laugh'd aloud. Each sight and sound
       To him was joy too deep for tears;
   He sat him on the beach, and bound
       A blue bandana round his ears
   And thought how, posted near his door,
       His own green door on Camden Hill,
   Two bands at least, most likely more,
       Were mingling at their own sweet will
   Verdi with Vance. And at the thought
       He laugh'd again, and softly drew
   That Morning Herald that he'd bought
       Forth from his breast, and read it through.