A SINGER IN THE STREET

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.

Alexander Anderson (1845-1909)