Like penitent souls through haunted corridors....
Ah, Grief, thou wanderer,
Thou maker of music, lingering and sweet!
Here dost thou pause to play thy shrill faint tunes,
Thy fingers touch the stops to loose our tears,
And shake our hearts, and fold our hands in prayer.
Through all the winding mazes of the city
Thy stooping shoulders and thy pitiful face are seen,
And thou dost stand before the gate of brass,
And by the iron door,