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."