Troubadour

Cities he knew of wide and devious ways, Cities of fresh veneer, and towers that held no past, On treeless roads he went through toilsome days And sleepless nights, with chains of light o'ercast.

Cities he knew of old, mysterious walls, And little twisted streets and hollowed stairs; Here he would rest awhile, or in grey halls Or quiet byways, give the world his wares.

And all his wares were but a lot of songs, Worn songs and new, caught up by land or sea,— Love songs and lullabys—ballads of dead wrongs, Haunting and tender—touched with fantasy.

In old Verona and sometimes in Rome At carnival he went in motley hues, And sang his songs beside St. Peter's dome, In colored coat, and gay rosetted shoes.

Cities he knew, and with his bright guitar He wove upon the moonlit nights a spell;— Casements flew open, when as from a star His rain of music on the darkness fell.

But no place held him long. He came and went With a light pack, and free as Summer air; Yet always he returned when years were spent To one still city—for his heart was there.