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.