The flame of my life burned low;
They thought I was all but dead.
“He has not very far to go!”
Their whispering said.

Suddenly over the way,
Outswelling the din of the street,
A piano began to play;
I found it sweet.

Only a halting machine
Grinding an elfin tune
With whirrings and whangings obscene
As a tipsy buffoon;

Yet to me it meant rapture and mirth
And the endless continuing, after
These sorry adventures on Earth—
Of beauty and laughter.

Then the flame of my life burned stronger,
Blown-on by that musical elf,
And I settled to stay a while longer
Making music myself.