And we will cherish your brief Spring God loves all prettiness, and on this Anna Hempstead Branch [18 SATURDAY NIGHT THE lights of Saturday night beat golden, golden over the pillared street; The long plate-glass of a Dream-World olden is as the footlights shining sweet. Street-lamp-flambeau-glamor of trolley-comet-trail of the trains above, Splash where the jostling crowds are jolly with echoing laughter and human love. This is the City of the Enchanted, and these are her Enchanted People; Far and far is Daylight, haunted with whistle of mill and bell of steeple. The Eastern tenements loose the women, the Western flats release the wives To touch, where all the ways are common, a glory to their sweated lives. The leather of shoes in the brilliant casement sheds a luster over the heart; The high-heaped fruit in the flaring basement glows with the tints of Turner's art. Darwin's dream and the eye of Spencer saw not such a gloried race As here, in copper light intenser than desert sun, glides face by face. The drab washwoman dazed and breathless, ray-chiseled in the golden stream, Is a magic statue standing deathless-her tub and soap-suds touched with Dream. The Barrel-Organ 2877 ople, glamor-sunnied, democracy wins heaven arned and the unmoneyed laugh in the lights › Lane! ld lights that lift through the ether millions the Milky Way! h rolls through a golden weather that lights les where they play! ? Does he lead these sons and daughters? hey feel with a passion that stills, ce of the moving waters, God in the quiet of t if the million-mantled mountains, and what lion-moving sea e in façades and fountains-our deep stoneumanity cities and civilizations walled away from the e sod ream-led, for our revelations through one anfar as God. another-through one another-no more the sea or land hat we see the Brother-and understand-and d! swept crowd closer, closer, we see the gleam in an clod, d foreman, peddler and grocer, are in our God! James Oppenheim [1882 THE BARREL-ORGAN rel-organ caroling across a golden street, as the sun sinks low; 's not immortal; but the world has made it Iit with the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light; And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night. And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance, And trolling out a fond familiar tune, And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, And now it's prattling softly to the moon, And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore To remember and to recompense the music evermore Yes; as the music changes, Like a prismatic glass, It takes the light and ranges Through all the moods that pass; Dissects the common carnival Of passions and regrets, And gives the world a glimpse of all And there La Traviata sighs Another sadder song; And there Il Trovatore cries A tale of deeper wrong; And bolder knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance, Than ever here on earth below Have whirled into-a dance !— Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) The Barrel-Organ 2879 re seas of bloom and soft perfume and e seas of bloom (and oh, so near to Lonwhen dawn is high and all the world's a h he's very shy, will sing a song for Lon rather rare and yet they say you'll hear in lilac-time (and oh, so near to Lonhe throstle, too, and after dark the long u-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogle London. knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard vin lilac-time (and oh, so near to Lon e begins to pout and all the chestnut spires rest without a doubt, all chorusing for w in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; w in lilac-time (it isn't far from London !) inder hand in hand with Love in summer's w in lilac-time (it isn't far from London 1) ubadour begins to thrill the golden street, the sun sinks low; udy busses there are scores of weary feet veet time, with a dull mechanic beat, hearts are plunging to a love they'll never adows of the sunset, through the poppies at, ere the dead dreams go. Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote Il Trovatore did you dream Of the organ and the monkey and the many-colored stream There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone In the City as the sun sinks low; There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own, There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone, And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known: They are crammed and jammed in busses and-they're each of them alone In the land where the dead dreams go. There's a very modish woman and her smile is In the City as the sun sinks low; very bland And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jeweled hand Is clenched a little tighter and she cannot understand What she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land, For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she planned, In the land where the dead dreams go. There's an Oxford man that listens and his heart is crying out In the City as the sun sinks low; For the barge, the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and shout, For the minute-gun, the counting and the long disheveled rout, For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt, For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think about In the land where the dead dreams go. |