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 Lon

don!)

The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo

And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogle London.

Nor 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 of 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 listens 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 an 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 carolling 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.

And 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 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 carolling across a golden street
In the City as the suns 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 com

plete

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 to 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 !) Alfred Noyes [1880

AMANTIUM IRÆ

From "The Paradise of Dainty Devices"

IN going to my naked bed, as one that would have slept,
I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept.
She sighed sore, and sang full sweet to bring the babe to

rest,

That would not cease, but crièd still, in sucking at her breast.

She was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child;
She rocked it, and rated it, till that on her it smiled.
Then did she say, "Now have I found this proverb true to
prove,

The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love."

Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write,
In register for to remain of such a worthy wight.
As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat
Much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she
sat:

And proved plain there was no beast, nor creature bearing

life

Could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife.

Then kissed she her little babe, and sware, by God above, The falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love,