Classic Poem

He stands in his rags at the sun-spattered curb,
A swarthy brown fellow of tatters and smiles,
Above his black curls are the vagabond skies,
The light of his long journeying lurks in his eyes,
And over his shoulder are yesterday's miles. ...

His coat it is broken, his airs are outworn,
Yet somehow we pause on the sidewalk to hear —
The children come running, with May in their feet,
To dance to his tunes in the clattering street,
And Age at its window looks down with a tear.

So out of the clamor and toil of the day
The Organ-Man comes, with a nondescript tune,
A smile in his eyes where the world's wisdoms are,
A heart in his breast like a struggling star —
And over his shoulder a garment of June.
Lord of the Summer, come up from the South!
Come, little Organ-Man, come to my street,
Play me old Aprils of sunlight and rain;
Play me the long-ago Springtimes again!
Play ... till the world is once more at my feet!