Penance Thomas Hardy
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“Why do you sit, O pale thin man,
  At the end of the room
By that harpsichord, built on the quaint old plan?
  - It is cold as a tomb,
And there’s not a spark within the grate;
  And the jingling wires
  Are as vain desires
  That have lagged too late.”
“Why do I? Alas, far times ago
  A woman lyred here
In the evenfall; one who fain did so
  From year to year;
And, in loneliness bending wistfully,
  Would wake each note
  In sick sad rote,
  None to listen or see!
“I would not join. I would not stay,
  But drew away,
Though the winter fire beamed brightly . . . Aye!
  I do to-day
What I would not then; and the chill old keys,
  Like a skull’s brown teeth
  Loose in their sheath,
  Freeze my touch; yes, freeze.”
  At the end of the room
By that harpsichord, built on the quaint old plan?
  - It is cold as a tomb,
And there’s not a spark within the grate;
  And the jingling wires
  Are as vain desires
  That have lagged too late.”
“Why do I? Alas, far times ago
  A woman lyred here
In the evenfall; one who fain did so
  From year to year;
And, in loneliness bending wistfully,
  Would wake each note
  In sick sad rote,
  None to listen or see!
“I would not join. I would not stay,
  But drew away,
Though the winter fire beamed brightly . . . Aye!
  I do to-day
What I would not then; and the chill old keys,
  Like a skull’s brown teeth
  Loose in their sheath,
  Freeze my touch; yes, freeze.”
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