Classic Poem

I WATCHED him as along the street he went,
Most wearily, in garments thin and poor,
Pausing at intervals by porch and door
To play upon his well worn instrument—
An antique harp, o'er which his head was bent,
While the swift strings his meagre hands swept o'er.
And, as he played, such marvelous sweet strains
His fingers caught from those obedient chords—
Such throbbing cadences and wild refrains,
The soulful music had no need of words!
Tears filled his eyes! In those familiar themes,
He heard once more the birds and murmuring streams
Of home, and sighing of his native pines,
In wind-swept gorges of the Appenines!