Out of Tune

The old dilapidated house
   That's always in the rain
Forgotten is by all the world,
   Covered with weeds its lane.

Yet, often from the house is heard
   By all but human ears
A brittle spinet sounding airs
   That seem to drip with tears;

A brittle spinet sounding airs
   In distant minor keys,
Composed of sorrows out of tune.
   Enormous wheels of cheese.



Lute Song

      My lute doth sound
With music soft and sad this pitchy night,——
      A plodding ground
Largo e sostenuto play'd by a wight
Long dead, and living yet to his despite.

      He gins to sing.
His voice is strange, and ghostly is the tone.
      The song, a thing
Witless and wordless, compos'd is of a groan,
And a long, drawn-out, agonizing moan.

      About his balls,
The plaintive melody painful is to hear.
      The song recalls
A time long-past——a very distant year——
When they were clipt to please a sadist's ear.

      A throbbing pain
Resonates, sounds in every sombre note;
      And like a rain
Of wept droplets from a sad fountain, mote
Forever be the weirdness in his throat.