Murmurs in the city
scramble,
Where friends and
strangers brush,
Where the crankies
rant and grumble,
Do not please me
very much.
A sweet voice, such
As, through the
sparrows’ babble,
The lively lines of
thrush,
Of things in times
to come,
Of glories that
will be
Or live in the
minds of some.
I listen to its
sound,
As I walk upon my
way,
And forgive the
noisy town,
Till it sweeps the
dream away,
Is drowned by cranky
drone,
As the babbling
city
Returns to its moan.
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