“Why do you sit, O pale thin man,
       &nbsp At the end of the room
By that harpsichord, built on the quaint old plan?
       &nbsp - It is cold as a tomb,
And there’s not a spark within the grate;
       &nbsp And the jingling wires
       &nbsp Are as vain desires
       &nbsp That have lagged too late.”

“Why do I? Alas, far times ago
       &nbsp A woman lyred here
In the evenfall; one who fain did so
       &nbsp From year to year;
And, in loneliness bending wistfully,
       &nbsp Would wake each note
       &nbsp In sick sad rote,
       &nbsp None to listen or see!

“I would not join. I would not stay,
       &nbsp But drew away,
Though the winter fire beamed brightly . . . Aye!
       &nbsp I do to-day
What I would not then; and the chill old keys,
       &nbsp Like a skull’s brown teeth
       &nbsp Loose in their sheath,
       &nbsp Freeze my touch; yes, freeze.”