her head. A fortnight's exercises lost, ere I began them, when, The following morning at my door, there came that tap again; A woman with an anguished face implored me to forego My music for some days to come—a man was dead below. I shut down my piano till the corpse had left the house, And spoke to Tom in whispers and was quiet as a mouse. A week of labor limbered up my stiffened hand and voice, I stole an extra hour from sleep, to practice and rejoice; When, ting-a-ling, the door-bell rang a discord in my trill— The baby in the flat across was very, very ill. For ten long days that infant's life was hanging by a thread, And all that time my instrument was silent as the dead. So pain and death and sickness came in one perpetual row, When babies were not born above, then tenants died below. The funeral over underneath, some one fell ill on top, And begged me, for the love of God, to let my music drop. When trouble went not up or down, it stalked across the hall, And so in spite of my resolve, I do not play at all. Inspiration Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy, Is inspiration, eager to pursue, But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy, Who gives herself to him who best doth woo. Is inspiration, eager to pursue, Who gives herself to him who best doth woo. Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire, In passing by, but when she turns her face, Thou must persist and seek her with desire, If thou wouldst win the favor of her grace. In passing by, but when she turns her face, If thou wouldst win the favor of her grace. And if, like some winged bird she cleaves the air, And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth, Still must thou strive to follow even there, That she may know thy valor and thy worth. And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth, That she may know thy valor and thy worth. Then shall she come unveiling all her charms, Giving thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears; Then shalt thou clasp her with possessing arms, The while she murmurs music in thine ears.
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