The Piano-Organ

My student-lamp is lighted,

   The books and papers are spread;

A sound comes floating upwards,

   Chasing the thoughts from my head.

I open the garret window,

   Let the music in and the moon;

See the woman grin for coppers,

   While the man grinds out the tune.

Grind me a dirge or a requiem,

   Or a funeral-march sad and slow,

But not, O not, that waltz tune

   I heard so long ago.

I stand upright by the window,

   The moonlight streams in wan:—

O God! with its changeless rise and fall

   The tune twirls on and on.