OHOW 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NURSING HOME: THE CANARY by KAREN SWENSON ARCTURUS IN AUTUMN by SARA TEASDALE OUTWARD BOUND by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH KEATS (1) by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE IN THE PINK' by SIEGFRIED SASSOON |