Alas, poor rhapsodist, how sad thou art ! 
Is thine hour come? so soon, then, must thou part ? 
Hush we our concert now to thy hushed heart, 
And with our measure ease thy onfaring way. 

Pale Memory, saddest witness of delight, 
Whose eyes with gathered tears now glisten bright 
More than with joy they glittered yesternight, 
With thy lorn voice begin this roundelay. 

Thou Solitude, the Strange Companion, 
Heard faintly of the few and seen of none, 
On thy weak pipe of ever-wandering tone 
Through and about this ditty weaving play. 

Proud Sorrow, shadowy-haired with starlit crest, 
On thy black heavy lyre, whose sharp heel pressed 
Over thy buried heart destroys thy breast, 
Make mourn thy moaning chords beneath the lay. 

So sooth our concent now thou shalt not hear 
The fan of secret sandals feathering near, 
Nor shall we mark we play to no man's ear 
When thou with Sleep art stolen away.