 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
62
THE ORGAN-GRINDER.
I love to hear in some sad street forlorn,On which the very sun takes shame to shine,
'Mid Nature's exiles (who the low of kine
At sunset never heard, nor lark at morn,
Of all her unbought grace their sad lives shorn),
The harsh street organ “grind” some air divine
(Tho' it make Music doubt her origin),
And pause to see the children as new-born.
That is the music! played on instrument
Of finest touch and widest range—the heart!
And he who hears it not has never lent
An ear to that which is beyond all art;
In highest harmony incompetent,
The music of Man's life, to take a part!
| Stones from The Quarry | |