It was to me of a beauty That I could not understand, Though I dimly guessed at sorrow and joy In a grown-up distant land. 

 All that I know with the years, Much that I never shall know, Was in my heart when the music came In such guise, years ago. 

 And now when on Friday mornings I hear my own child run, When the German band in the street starts playing, The wonder is never done; 

 The wonder at ways that our spirit May take for itself to rise, How a puddle may be a silver lake, And a chimney touch the skies. 

 All the forms through which spirit Yearns and strives to be known Are only a little greater or less, For great is the Spirit alone. 

 

 

 STREET MUSIC 

 I 

 There comes an old man to our street, Dragging his knobby, lame old feet, Once a week he comes and stands, A concertina in his hands, There in the gutter stops and plays, No matter fine or rainy days —Very humble and very old— Pavement's for them who make so bold! Prim, starched nurses, and ladies fair With taffeta dresses and shining hair, And gay little children, who break and run To give him a penny—he seems to feel (Out-at-elbows and out-at-heel) That they've a right to the morning sun; And so with gnarled old hands he'll play For an hour, perhaps, then take his way, Dragging his knobby, lame old feet In the gutter of this quiet street. 

 There is no grudging in his eyes, Nor anger, nor the least surprise At the uneven scales of fate: Glad of the sun, against the rain Hunching his shoulders, age and pain He takes as his appointed state, And stands, like Lazarus, at the door With the dread humility of the poor. 

 

 

 STREET MUSIC 

 II 

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