Alexander's Bridge

  There's a barrel-organ caroling 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 the pain
    That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;
  And they've given it a glory and a part to play again
    In the Symphony that rules the day and the night.

  And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance,
    And trolling out a fond familiar tune,
  And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France,
    And now it's prattling softly to the moon,
  And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore
    Of human joys and wonders and regrets;
  To remember and to recompense the music evermore
    For what the cold machinery forgets. . . .

  Yes; as the music changes,
    Like a prismatic glass,
  It takes the light and ranges
    Through all the moods that pass;
  Dissects the common carnival
    Of passions and regrets,
  And gives the world a glimpse of all
    The colors it forgets.

  And there LA TRAVIATA sights
    Another sadder song;
  And there IL TROVATORE cries
    A tale of deeper wrong;
  And bolder knights to battle go
    With sword and shield and lance,
  Than ever here on earth below
    Have whirled into—A DANCE!—

  Go down to Kew in lilac time; in lilac time; in lilac time;
  Go down to Kew in lilac time; (it isn't far from London!)
  And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;
  Go down to Kew in lilac time; (it isn't far from London!)

  The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,
  The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)
  And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky
  The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.

  The nightingale is rather rare and yet they say you'll hear him there
  At Kew, at Kew in lilac time (and oh, so near to London!)
  The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo
  And golden-eyed TU-WHIT, TU WHOO of owls that ogle London.

  For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard
  At Kew, at Kew in lilac time (and oh, so near to London!)
  And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out
  You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for London:—

  COME DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC TIME; IN LILAC TIME; IN LILAC TIME;
  COME DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC TIME; (IT ISN'T FAR FROM LONDON!)
  AND YOU SHALL WANDER HAND IN HAND WITH LOVE IN SUMMER'S WONDERLAND;
  COME DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC TIME; (IT ISN'T FAR FROM LONDON!)

  And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street,
    In the City as the sun sinks low;
  And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet
  Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat,
  And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet,
  Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat,
    In the land where the dead dreams go.

  Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote IL TROVATORE did you dream
    Of the City when the sun sinks low
  Of the organ and the monkey and the many-colored stream
  On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem
  To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam
  As A CHE LA MORTE parodies the world's eternal theme
    And pulses with the sunset glow?

  There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone
    In the City as the sun sinks low;
  There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own,
  There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone,
  And they're all them returning to the heavens they have known:
  They are crammed and jammed in busses and—they're each of them alone
    In the land where the dead dreams go.

  There's a very modish woman and her smile is very bland
    In the City as the sun sinks low;
  And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jeweled hand
  Is clenched a little tighter and she cannot understand
  What she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land,
  For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she planned,
    In the land where the dead dreams go.

  There's an Oxford man that listens and his heart is crying out
    In the City as the sun sinks low;
  For the barge the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and shout,
  For the minute gun, the counting and the long disheveled rout,
  For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt,
  For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think about
    In the land where the dead dreams go.

  There's a laborer that listen to the voices of the dead
    In the City as the sun sinks low;
  And his hand begins to tremble and his face is rather red
  As he sees a loafer watching him and—there he turns his head
  And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled,
  For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led
    Through the land where the dead dreams go.

  There's and old and hardened demi-rep, it's ringing in her ears,
    In the City as the sun sinks low;
  With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and sears,
  Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears,
  Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years,
  And her laugh's a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed with tears
    For the land where the dead dreams go.

  There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street,
    In the City as the sun sinks low;
  Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet
  Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet
  Mellows all the sooty City!  Hark, a hundred thousand feet
  Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat
    In the land where the dead dreams go.

            So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah,
              What have you to say
            When you meet the garland girls
              Tripping on their way?

            All around my gala hat
              I wear a wreath of roses
            (A long and lonely year it is
              I've waited for the May!)

            If any one should ask you,
              The reason why I wear it is,
            My own love, my true love, is coming home to-day.

  It's buy a bunch of violets for the lady
    (IT'S LILAC TIME IN LONDON; IT'S LILAC TIME IN LONDON!)
  Buy a bunch of violets for the lady;
    While the sky burns blue above:

  On the other side of the street you'll find it shady
    (IT'S LILAC TIME IN LONDON; IT'S LILAC TIME IN LONDON!)
  But buy a bunch of violets for the lady;
    And tell her she's your own true love.

  There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street,
    In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow;
  And the music's not immortal, but the world has made it sweet
  And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete
  In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet,
    As it dies into the sunset glow;

  And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
    That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light,
  And they've given it a glory and a part of play again
    In the Symphony that rules the day and night.

            And there, as the music changes,
              The song runs round again;
            Once more it turns and ranges
              Through all its joy and pain:
            Dissects the common carnival
              Of passions and regrets;
            And the wheeling world remembers all
              The wheeling song forgets.

            Once more La TRAVIATA sighs
              Another sadder song:
            Once more IL TROVATORE cries
              A tale of deeper wrong;
            Once more the knights to battle go
              With sword and shield and lance,
            Till once, once more, the shattered foe
              Has whirled into—A DANCE—

  Come down to Kew in lilac time; in lilac time; in lilac time;
  Come down to Kew in lilac time; (it isn't far from London!)
  And you shall wander hand in hand with Love in summer's wonderland;
  Come down to Kew in lilac time; (it isn't far from London!)

  COME DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC TIME; IN LILAC TIME; IN LILAC TIME;
  COME DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC TIME; (IT ISN'T FAR FROM LONDON!)
  AND YOU SHALL WANDER HAND IN HAND WITH LOVE IN SUMMER'S WONDERLAND;
  COME DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC TIME; (IT ISN'T FAR FROM LONDON!)


-- Alfred Noyes