MUSIC MAGIC
By Edmund Leamy
Perhaps there is no magic in this dull old world of ours; Perhaps there are no Fairy Tales to gladden heart-break hours; Perhaps there is no beauty, and perhaps all things are wrong; But still there is the wonder of a little, old-time song!
A squeaking and battered old organ, rattling a moss-covered tune,
Stood in the street of the city, there, in the heat of the noon;
Banging of roses and sunshine, thrilling of lands far away,
Whispering songs of my childhood,—sorrowful, simple and gay;
I was a child for a moment, filled with a child's petty fears,
Dreaming, and dreaming, and dreaming, never a thought of the tears.
Then as the music softened, singing of love and of life,
Brought it back thought of the old days, far from the toil and the strife,
Glimmer of gold in the star-light, shimmer of silk by the sea;
Words that were whispered, half-spoken, dreams that were never to be.
Sweet intermingled with sadness, what is as dear as the past?
Is there a day in the future that is as fair as the last?
