Is it nought to you that hear him?
With the old strange cry The weary hawker passes, And some will come and buy, And some will let him pass away And only heave a sigh, But most will neither heed nor hear When dreams go by.
_Lavender, lavender!
His songs were fair and sweet, He brought us harvests out of heaven, Full sheaves of radiant wheat; He brought us keys to Paradise, And hawked them thro' the street; He brought his dreams to London, And dragged his weary feet._
Lavender, lavender!
He is gone. The sunset glows; But through the brain of London The mystic fragrance flows.
Each foggy cell remembers, Each ragged alley knows, The land he left behind him, The land to which he goes.
The End