She is there now— before me at the piano, and I hear that melody.
And who is that boy sitting there,
—the hope and pride of his family. He is reading some book of Roman exploits and deeds of bravery—
His boyish soul is clean.
I am sorrowful unto madness.
I may not live to see the hour of dawn,
The hour of execution.
This grief will kill me
—that melody!
Long since the musicians have returned to their homes,
I still hear it, note for note.