On Saturday, in Southern market towns, When I was a boy with twenty cents to spend, The carts began to drift in with the morning, And, by the afternoon, the slipshod Square And all Broad Center Street were lined with them; Moth-eaten mules that whickered at each other Between the mended shafts of rattletrap wagons, Mud-spattered buggies, mouldy phaëtons, And, here and there, an ox-cart from the hills Whose solemn team had shoulders of rough, white rock, Innocent noses, black and wet as snailshells, And that inordinate patience in their eyes.