@3MY heart's an old Spinet with strings To laughter chiefly tuned, but some That Fate has practised hard on, dumb, They answer not whoever sings. The ghosts of half-forgotten things Will touch the keys with fingers numb, The little mocking spirits come And thrill it with their fairy wings. A jingling harmony it makes My heart, my lyre, my old Spinet, And now a memory it wakes, And now the music means "forget," And little heed the player takes Howe'er the thoughtful critic fret@1 |