MUSIC
O restless fingers—not that music make!
Bidding old griefs from out the past awake,
And pine for memory's sake.
Those strings thou callest from quiet mute to yearn,
Of other hearts did hapless secrets learn,
And thy strange skill will turn
To uses that thy bosom dreams not of:
Ay, summon from their dark and dreadful grove
The chaunting, pale-cheeked votaries of love.