Classic Poem

Through the street, at afternoon
Sleeping in the sultry light,—
As I passed I heard a tune
Ground, with scarce a stave aright,
From some organ out of sight.

And I went out from the town,
Sleeping street, and droning tones
Fain to wake it,—wandering down
To the river's margent stones.

There, above, the waters flow
Rippling o'er a pebbly run,
And, within a pool below,
Joining many tunes in one,
Sing again in unison.

Strangely, though, the murmuring sound,
As I listened, took the shape
Of the tune the organ ground
Where the town lay, half-asleep.

‘'Tis too near the town-walls here,
But there is a distant hill
On whose summit high and clear,’
Said I, ‘sure the moments will
Pass unechoing and still!’

Fresh its heights, though afternoon;
Light and cool the breezes played,
Bearing scents of clover strewn
Far below by lad and maid.

There, upon the hill-top grew,
On the stony, barren crest,
Twenty thistles,—ragged crew,
Rustling with a plaintive zest
In the little wind's unrest.

And my glance fell far below,
As they rustled—suddenly
On the town's red roofs aglow,
In a homely company,—

Far below, and then the wind
Rose into a fitful gale;
And the thistles, to my mind,
Whistling on a noisier scale,
Told an old, familiar tale.

Some old ballad's monotone,—
Thistle-heads, your tune is sweet:
Where before was heard or known
This you whistle at my feet?

Now I know the coat it wears
This is still the selfsame tune
That the droning organ bears
Through the town,—the haunting tune
Of the street this afternoon.

And I slowly townward turned,
Thinking of the pleasant shade
That the sun, the while it burned,
Under wall and doorway made,—

Thinking of the splash and drip
In the market-font, the sound
Of a dusty teamster's whip,
And the children's cry: I found
To the tune's sweet tale no bound.