He's very old, his music box is old and rusty, too,
And half the notes of it are harsh, and half of
them are slow;
One wonders if the coat he wears could ever have
been new—
And if the tune he plays was quite forgotten long
ago.

He finds a sunny place to stand, and lifts his bleary
eyes,
And smiles a bit—a toothless smile half touched,
perhaps, with fear;
And though he cannot see them he is looking at the
skies,
As if he prays, but silently, for hope and faith
and cheer.

The foreign women pass him by, their tarnished coins
held tight,
They toss their heads and will not hear his music's
wistful hum—
But through each alley way and street, like moths
that seek the light,
With eager eyes and laughing lips the little chil-
dren come.

He plays his ancient, shaky song, his mouth moves to
its sway,
He does not know the tune of it is old and out of
key;
For, through his eyes, a soul stares out that wanders
far away,
In some fair land of youth and love—some land
that used to be.

The little children cluster close, bareheaded, bare of
limb—
They hold their ragged frocks and dance, they do
not care—or know,
That they are like a garden place, a fragrant dream
to him,
Or that the tune he plays was quite forgotten long
ago.