If I have dared again to wake the lyre
Of him whose hand shall sweep no more the strings—
That great enchanter, at whose funeral pyre
Laughter and Grief stood each with drooping wings
And head dejected (him, whose “Bridge of Sighs”
And “Number One” drew teardrops from the eyes
Of Mirth and Sadness), I trust you’ll have mercy,
And that, kind Reader, you will not ejaculate
“Oh, ah!” or “Pooh!”
“This never will do!”