PENANCE

“Why do you sit, O pale thin man,

At the end of the room

By that harpsichord, built on the quaint old plan?

— It is cold as a tomb,

And there's not a spark within the grate;

And the jingling wires

Are as vain desires

That have lagged too late.”

“Why do I? Alas, far times ago

A woman lyred here

In the evenfall; one who fain did so

From year to year;

And, in loneliness bending wistfully,

Would wake each note

In sick sad rote,

None to listen or see!

“I would not join. I would not stay,

But drew away,

Though the winter fire beamed brightly... Aye!

I do to-day

What I would not then; and the chill old keys,

Like a skull's brown teeth

Loose in their sheath,

Freeze my touch; yes, freeze.”