The voiceless ghosts of long-dead melodies.
In purple and sable, slashed with solemn gold,
Like stately twilight over slopes of snow,
He leans above her.—
Have his hands forgot
Their craft, that now they pause upon the strings?
His lips, their art, that they cease, speechless there?—
His eyes are set ... What is it stills to stone
His hands? his lips? and mails him, head and heel,
In terrible marble, motionless and cold?—