So come, little Maid, to the cracked piano.
Play us “The Battle of Prague,” my dear.
The silence clouds, like a potion shaken,
As the limp strings jar to an ancient pain;
Their light and sweetness no touch can waken,
And only the dregs of a tone remain.
The silk-sewn music with fray and stain
Swoons on the keys at the urgent stages,
And the little Maid, as she props the pages,
Just murmurs, “Bother!” and starts again.