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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341835" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Barrel-Organ</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street <br>In the City as the sun sinks low; <br>And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet <br>And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; <br>And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain <br>That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light; <br>And they've given it a glory and a part to play again <br>In the Symphony that rules the day and night. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance, <br>And trolling out a fond familiar tune, <br>And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, <br>And now it's prattling softly to the moon. <br>And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore <br>Of human joys and wonders and regrets; <br>To remember and to recompense the music evermore <br>For what the cold machinery forgets... </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes; as the music changes, <br>Like a prismatic glass, <br>It takes the light and ranges <br>Through all the moods that pass; <br>Dissects the common carnival <br>Of passions and regrets, <br>And gives the world a glimpse of all <br>The colours it forgets. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there La Traviata sighs <br>Another sadder song; <br>And there Il Trovatore cries <br>A tale of deeper wrong; <br>And bolder knights to battle go <br>With sword and shield and lance, <br>Than ever here on earth below <br>Have whirled into--a dance!-- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; <br>Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) <br>And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; <br>Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, <br>The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) <br>And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky <br>The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The nightingale is rather rare and yet they say you'll hear him there <br>At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) <br>The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo <br>And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogle London. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard <br>At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) <br>And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out <br>You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for London:-- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; <br>Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) <br>And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; <br>Come down to Kew in lilac-time (is isn't far from London!) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street, <br>In the city as the sun sinks low; <br>And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet <br>Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat, <br>And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet, <br>Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat, <br>In the land where the dead dreams go. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote Il Trovatore did you dream <br>Of the City when the sun sinks low, <br>Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream <br>On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem <br>To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam <br>As A che la morte parodies the world's eternal theme <br>And pulses with the sunset-glow? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone <br>In the City as the sun sinks low; <br>There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own, <br>There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone, <br>And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known: <br>They are crammed and jammed in busses and--they're each of them alone <br>In the land where the dead dreams go. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead <br>In the City as the sun sinks low; <br>And his hand begins to tremble and his face is rather red <br>As he sees a loafer watching him and--there he turns his head <br>And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled, <br>For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led <br>Through the land where the dead dreams go... </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street <br>In the City as the sun sinks low; <br>Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet <br>Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet <br>Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet <br>Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat <br>In the land where the dead dreams go. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah, <br>What have you to say <br>When you meet the garland girls <br>Tripping on their way? <br>All around my gala hat <br>I wear a wreath of roses <br>(A long and lonely year it is <br>I've waited for the May!) <br>If any one should ask you, <br>The reason why I wear it is-- <br>My own love, my true love is coming home to-day. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady <br>(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) <br>Buy a bunch of violets for the lady; <br>While the sky burns blue above: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">On the other side the street you'll find it shady <br>(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) <br>But buy a bunch of violets for the lady, <br>And tell her she's your own true love. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street <br>In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow; <br>And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet <br>And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete <br>In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet, <br>As it dies into the sunset glow; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain <br>That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light, <br>And they've given it a glory and a part to play again <br>In the Symphony that rules the day and night. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there, as the music changes, <br>The song runs round again; <br>Once more it turns and ranges <br>Through all its joy and pain: <br>Dissects the common carnival <br>Of passions and regrets; <br>And the wheeling world remembers all <br>The wheeling song forgets. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once more La Traviata sighs <br>Another sadder song: <br>Once more Il Trovatore cries <br>A tale of deeper wrong; <br>Once more the knights to battle go <br>With sword and shield and lance <br>Till once, once more, the shattered foe <br>Has whirled into--a dance! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; <br>Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) <br>And you shall wander hand in hand with Love in summer's wonderland, <br>Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alfred+Noyes">Alfred Noyes</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341835" data-title="The Barrel-Organ de Alfred Noyes" data-description="There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street 
In the City as the sun sinks low; 
And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet 
And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; 
And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and ..."></div>
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