A singer in the street to-day,
He sings a song; and as I hear
I dream and wander far away,
And still his song is in my ear.
Snatches of dim forgotten things
Are in it; such as throb and glow
In nameless poets and their rhymes,
For simple hearers long ago.
That was their art; they died unknown,
Not caring, if they left behind
A single snatch, a tender tone,
To linger with their fellow kind.
And this they did, like birds that pipe,
By lonely stream or misty hill,
A chord or two, but full and ripe,
Then seem forever to be still.
But not the notes that are so sweet,
They live and shift as sunshine slips;
Till here to-day within the street
They rest upon a singer's lips.