A Lounger

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.