Classic Poem

Above the quiet village street,
Cool willow branches wave and meet,
And locust blossoms fall in sweet
Midsummer snow beneath the feet.

Often adown the dusty way
Sleek cattle indolently stray;
And groups of little children play
In sun and shadow all the day.

Sometimes an organ-grinder brown
Comes with his wrinkled simian clown,
And sets his tuneful burden down
Before the finest house in town.

Then soon a merry band and fair,
Entranced, applaud each hackneyed air,
Or shout at Jocko's antics there,
As at some mime of genius rare.

And I, though I should list my fill,
To some old maëstro's magic skill,
Could never feel such honest thrill
As these young alchemists of ill.

He goes, as organ-grinders do,
To play elsewhere his tunes anew;
The laughter of that merry crew
Dies down the leafy avenue.

They follow him in Fairyland,
A region where all winds are bland,
Where every hour is pleasure planned,
And wonders lie on every hand.

Pied Piper of our village street,
Play on, thy wheezy tunes repeat!
Once more to think such music sweet
I'd toss a fortune at thy feet!