_MY heart’s an old Spinet with strings_
_To laughter chiefly tuned_, _but some_
_That Fate has practised hard on_, _dumb_,
_They answer not whoever sings_.
_The ghosts of half-forgotten things_
_Will touch the keys with fingers numb_,
_The little mocking spirits come_
_And thrill it with their fairy wings_.
_A jingling harmony it makes_
_My heart_, _my lyre_, _my old Spinet_,
_And now a memory it wakes_,
_And now the music means_ “_forget_,”
_And little heed the player takes_
_Howe’er the thoughtful critic fret_.