Classic Poem

Free of all enslavement,
Free of fret and care,
Youth, upon the pavement,
Dances to the air
Of a street piano
While a joyous note
Comes in shrill soprano
From each childish throat.

As the tune is ringing
Through the dingy street
Blithe young bodies swinging
Dance on rhythmic feet;
'Mid the city's clamor
'Mid the smoke and grime
Comes the golden glamour
Of a vanished time.

Here, in garments scanty,
Somehow we can see,
Many a young bacchante,
Many a dryad free,
Somehow we are glancing
At a pagan clan,
—Fauns and wood-nymphs dancing
To the Pipes o' Pan.