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.