Upon the summer afternoon,

Wafted across the orchard trees,

There comes a ghostly travelling tune,

Blent with the sleepy drone of bees;

Elfin, aёrial it is.

Like shaken bells of silver rain.

And creepy as old melodies—

The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

The ancient hat, the wornout shoon,

The broken-hearted fineries.

The yellowed news, dead as the moon.

The rust, the rubbish, and the lees.

The tarnished trophy, gallantries

Gone to the moth — this clouded cane!

This buckle brave! — for such as these

The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

O thou that wooest deep in June,

Hearken! and thou so fain to seize

Joy, and to hoard it, late and soon.

Thou lord of many locks and keys.

Thick lies the dust — though no man sees —

Upon thy dream; Time sees it plain

On the bright wings, long ere it flies:

The junk-man’s coming down the lane.

Prince, ’tis a thought our veins to freeze:

Time doth all hallowed things profane,

And toss about the centuries —

The junk-man’s coming down the lane.