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."