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 | Drifted in |  |
There was a singer upon the train,
Who—words half useless! had toiled in vain
An inland city to reach that night,
Where placards staring in letters bright,
Had told his admirers, day by day,
That melody soon would come that way.
A song we asked from this prince of song:
But he, unwilling to do what long
He'd done as a task, would rather try
To do some thing that he did not do
Except for pleasure; and bye and bye
He told this story, which may be true:
Who—words half useless! had toiled in vain
An inland city to reach that night,
Where placards staring in letters bright,
Had told his admirers, day by day,
That melody soon would come that way.
A song we asked from this prince of song:
But he, unwilling to do what long
He'd done as a task, would rather try
To do some thing that he did not do
Except for pleasure; and bye and bye
He told this story, which may be true:
| Drifted in | |