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."