|
|
|
"Dustman, dustman!" Through the deserted square he cries, And babies put their rosy fists Into their eyes. There's nothing out of No-man's-land So drowsy since the world began, As, "Dustman, dustman, Dustman." He goes his village round at dusk From door to door, from day to day; And when the children hear his step They stop their play. "Dustman, dustman!" Far up the street he is descried, And soberly the twilight games Are laid aside. "Dustman, dustman!" There, Drowsyhead, the old refrain, "Dustman, dustman!" It goes again. "Dustman, dustman!" Hurry by and let me sleep. When most I wish for you to come, You always creep. "Dustman, dustman!" And when I want to play some more, You never then are farther off Than the next door. "Dustman, dustman!" He beckles down the echoing curb, A step that neither hopes nor hates Ever disturb. "Dustman, dustman!" He never varies from one pace, And the monotony of time Is in his face. And some day, with more potent dust, Brought from his home beyond the deep, And gently scattered on our eyes, We, too, shall sleep,— Hearing the call we know so well Fade swiftly out as it began, "Dustman, dustman, Dustman!" |