How strange it seems!
The thin, weak notes that once were rich and strong
Give only now, the shadow of a song;
The dying echo of the fuller strain,
That I shall never, never hear again:
Unless in dreams.
What hands have touched it! fingers small and white,
Since cold and weary with life’s toil and strife
Dear clinging hands, that long have been at rest
Folded serenely on a quiet breast.