We make our meek adjustments,Contented with such random consolations
As the wind depositsIn slithered and too ample pockets.
For we can still love the world, who findA famished kitten on the step, and knowRecesses for it from the fury of the street,Or warm torn elbow coverts.
We will sidestep, and to the final smirkDally the doom of that inevitable thumbThat slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,Facing the dull squint with what innocenceAnd what surprise!
And yet these fine collapses are not liesMore than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.We can evade you, and all else but the heart:What blame to us if the heart live on.
The game enforces smirks; but we have seenThe moon in lonely alleys makeA grail of laughter of an empty ash can,And through all sound of gaiety and questHave heard a kitten in the wilderness.--Hart Crane
Crane that seem to me to be nothing more than word salad, but this is not one of them. I think it perfectly conveys both the comic and the sentimental Chaplin, even if like all of Crane's poems it's really about Hart (see "heart" above).