“Are you awake,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Comrades, this silent night?
       &nbsp Well ’twere if all of our glossy gluey make
Lay in the damp without, and fell to fragments quite!”

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “O viol, my friend,
       &nbsp       &nbsp I watch, though Phosphor nears,
       &nbsp And I fain would drowse away to its utter end
This dumb dark stowage after our loud melodious years!”

And they felt past handlers clutch them,
       &nbsp Though none was in the room,
Old players’ dead fingers touch them,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Shrunk in the tomb.

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “‘Cello, good mate,
       &nbsp       &nbsp You speak my mind as yours:
       &nbsp Doomed to this voiceless, crippled, corpselike state,
Who, dear to famed Amphion, trapped here, long endures?”

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “Once I could thrill
       &nbsp       &nbsp The populace through and through,
       &nbsp Wake them to passioned pulsings past their will.” . . .
(A contra-basso spake so, and the rest sighed anew.)

And they felt old muscles travel
       &nbsp Over their tense contours,
And with long skill unravel
       &nbsp       &nbsp Cunningest scores.
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “The tender pat
       &nbsp       &nbsp Of her aery finger-tips
       &nbsp Upon me daily - I rejoiced thereat!”
(Thuswise a harpsicord, as from dampered lips.)

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “My keys’ white shine,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Now sallow, met a hand
       &nbsp Even whiter. . . . Tones of hers fell forth with mine
In sowings of sound so sweet no lover could withstand!”

And its clavier was filmed with fingers
       &nbsp Like tapering flames - wan, cold -
Or the nebulous light that lingers
       &nbsp       &nbsp In charnel mould.

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “Gayer than most
       &nbsp       &nbsp Was I,” reverbed a drum;
       &nbsp “The regiments, marchings, throngs, hurrahs! What a host
I stirred - even when crape mufflings gagged me well-nigh dumb!”

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp Trilled an aged viol:
       &nbsp       &nbsp “Much tune have I set free
       &nbsp To spur the dance, since my first timid trial
Where I had birth - far hence, in sun-swept Italy!”

And he feels apt touches on him
       &nbsp From those that pressed him then;
Who seem with their glance to con him,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Saying, “Not again!”
       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “A holy calm,”
       &nbsp       &nbsp Mourned a shawm’s voice subdued,
       &nbsp “Steeped my Cecilian rhythms when hymn and psalm
Poured from devout souls met in Sabbath sanctitude.”

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “I faced the sock
       &nbsp       &nbsp Nightly,” twanged a sick lyre,
       &nbsp “Over ranked lights! O charm of life in mock,
O scenes that fed love, hope, wit, rapture, mirth, desire!”

Thus they, till each past player
       &nbsp Stroked thinner and more thin,
And the morning sky grew grayer
       &nbsp       &nbsp And day crawled in.