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.
