A queer dark shape to scare 
Nothing on that bright street, 
In the sharp glittering air, 
He kept his broken feet 
Still, so to save them, while 
His coat flapped in the wind. 
And, as girls will beguile 
Vexed heart or perplexed mind, 
The rusty figure wound 
And unwound rapidly 
A bit of thread he'd found 
And clutched at thriftily — 
A trick cold fingers caught 
Quickly, a thing to do. 
His eyes were bare of thought. 
His foot stared through his shoe. 
A flapping shape to scare 
None but himself, where grain 
Was none to guard, his care 
Was but to wind again 
And then again unwind 
His bit of thread, not more 
Than any scarecrow blind 
To what he did it for.