I've heard a mad old fiddler play Harsh, discordant, broken strains, Down the wet street on a winter's day When the rain was speckling the window-panes, And though it was middle afternoon And none of the lamps were lighted yet, The night had settled down too soon And the sky was low and dark and wet. In a cracked old voice I've heard him sing, Strangely capering to and fro, Sawing his fiddle on one worn string, A grotesque and desolate thing of woe, Wagging his head and stamping his feet (Unwitting of the passers-by Hurrying through the gloomy street) His shoulders hunched and his head awry. The children would laugh when they saw him pass, And "Look," they'd say, "at Crazy Joe!" And press their faces against the glass To watch him—leering and lurching—go. Where he comes from, nobody knows, But he, being mad, is in God's hand, And sacred upon his way he goes; And his music—God will understand. PICCADILLY Above, the quiet stars and the night wind; Below, the lamp-lit streets, and up and down The tired, stealthy steps of those who walk When the just sleep, at night, in London town. Poor garish ghosts that haunt the yellow glare, Wan spectres, lurking in the alleys dark Among the tainted night-smells, while the wind Is whispering to the trees across the Park; For it is summer, may be, and the scent Of new-mown hay is sweet across the fields, But neither summer, nor the gleaming spring One breath of healing to this dark life yields; No morning sunshine greets these sidelong eyes With blessings, daughters as they are of gloom, Ghosts only, such as seem to have a shape At night in some old evil, haunted room. Would that they were indeed to be dissolved At every sunrise!—they are living souls Dragging mortality about foul streets While overhead the star-lit heaven rolls. Living souls are they, and they have their share In seed and harvest, and the round world's boon Of changing seasons, and the miracle Of each month's waxing and waning of the moon. Living souls are they,
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