MUSIC by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES

LET Fortune gift on gift bestow
When Music plays it bringeth woe
For something dearer Time hath ta'en,
Which never can be ours again.
The aged beggar-man hath heard,
And tear-drops trickle down his beard
For loss of kinder looks and home,
And days that never more can come.
Here in this smoky capital,
With scarce aught seen but grimy wall
And human faces -- bring to me,
Music, the things of old: the bee
Humming as Summer's months were three,
Winter had nine; bring birds and flowers,
And the green earth of childhood's hours,
With sparkling dews at early morn;
The murmuring streams; and show the corn:
And break its golden roof to show
Poppies and blueflowers where they grow.
O happy days of childhood, when
We taught shy Echo in the glen
Words she had never used before --
Ere Age lost heart to summon her.
Life's river, with its early rush,
Falls into a mysterious hush
When nearing the eternal sea:
Yet we would not forgetful be,
In these deep, silent days so wise,
Of shallows making mighty noise
When we were young, when we were gay,
And never thought Death lived -- that day.

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