The Walkers

(He speaks.)      Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking!      Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high;      Striding up the green hills, through the heather stalking,      Swishing through the woodlands where the brown leaves lie;      Marveling at all things - windmills gaily turning,      Apples for the cider-press, ruby-hued and gold;      Tails of rabbits twinkling, scarlet berries burning,      Wedge of geese high-flying in the sky's clear cold,      Light in little windows, field and furrow darkling;      Home again returning, hungry as a hawk;      Whistling up the garden, ruddy-cheeked and sparkling,      Oh, but I am happy as I walk, walk, walk!          (She speaks.)      Walking, walking, oh, the curse of walking!      Slouching round the grim square, shuffling up the street,      Slinking down the by-way, all my graces hawking,      Offering my body to each man I meet.      Peering in the gin-shop where the lads are drinking,      Trying to look gay-like, crazy with the blues;      Halting in a doorway, shuddering and shrinking      (Oh, my draggled feather and my thin, wet shoes).      Here's a drunken drover: "Hullo, there, old dearie!"      No, he only curses, can't be got to talk. . . .      On and on till daylight, famished, wet and weary,      God in Heaven help me as I walk, walk, walk!