West Twenty-third Street on a windy night; At curb, a fiddler, with blown beard of white, Who plied his plaintive bow with better cheer At sight of lonely listener drawing near. Almost a jig shrilled from the hopeful strings, And stiff old elbows found some grace of wings. A hearth aglow with ruddy flame should greet The aged player, not this barren street; Sweet children should be clustered round his knees Beseeching bedtime tunes -- "Ah, Grandpa, please!" -- And to their smiles his merry violin Would seem to bring the dancing fairies in. Too soon the vision fades, and firelight dies, Surrendering to the cold realities Of wind and midnight, where the shelterless Must plead with passerby in hunger's stress. His thanks for coin dropped in his dangling cup Were followed by fresh tune his bow took up That seemed to make the shivering street afraid -- Dear Heaven! -- 'twas "Home Sweet Home" the old man played! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT I'VE BELIEVED IN by JAMES GALVIN STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 3. WASHINGTON, D.C. by CLARENCE MAJOR DOMESDAY BOOK: GEORGE JOSLIN ON LA MENKEN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: J. MILTON MILES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS MY SENSES DO NOT DECEIVE ME by MARIANNE MOORE AN AMERICAN IN BANGKOK by KAREN SWENSON |