THE LILACThe scent of lilac in the airHath made him drag his steps and pauseWhence comes this scent within the Square,Where endless dusty traffic roars?A push-cart stands beside the curb,With fragrant blossoms laden high;Speak low, nor stare, lest we disturbHis sudden reverie!He sees us not, nor heeds the dinOf clanging car and scuffling throng;His eyes see fairer sights within,And memory hears the robin’s songAs once it trilled against the day,And shook his slumber in a roomWhere drifted with the breath of MayThe lilac’s sweet perfume.The heart of boyhood in him stirs;The wonder of the morning skies,Of sunset gold behind the firs,Is kindled in his dreaming eyes:How far off is this sordid place,As turning from our sight awayHe crushes to his hungry faceA purple lilac spray.WALTER PRICHARD EATON
The scent of lilac in the airHath made him drag his steps and pauseWhence comes this scent within the Square,Where endless dusty traffic roars?A push-cart stands beside the curb,With fragrant blossoms laden high;Speak low, nor stare, lest we disturbHis sudden reverie!He sees us not, nor heeds the dinOf clanging car and scuffling throng;His eyes see fairer sights within,And memory hears the robin’s songAs once it trilled against the day,And shook his slumber in a roomWhere drifted with the breath of MayThe lilac’s sweet perfume.The heart of boyhood in him stirs;The wonder of the morning skies,Of sunset gold behind the firs,Is kindled in his dreaming eyes:How far off is this sordid place,As turning from our sight awayHe crushes to his hungry faceA purple lilac spray.
WALTER PRICHARD EATON