Classic Poem

O HOW the dance-tune trips it through the street,
Making steps rhythmic, blood the lustier beat!
Throwing a thought of love and holiday
Into the midst of Trade's most prosy way.

Look yonder: it is but an aged crone
Crouched in a corner, wrinkled and alone,
Half-dazed, who feebly grinds an organ small,
Craving scant pence and sun—and that is all.

As soon I'd think to hear a gargoyle sing,
A death-mask speak a lyric word of spring,
As yonder hag fill all the drowsy air
With music making Life alert and fair.


Yet hark, again the strain, the waltz-tune glad,
The sudden rapture, the abandon mad,
From a bleared woman, sick and old and sad!