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.




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