SOME strange and thrilling chord struck carelessly

Long lingering on lute or viol string,

Snatches from songs thy voice was wont to sing,

Stray strains of wild and wandering melody

Ring from the soul its utmost agony;

Such tear-laden remembrances they bring

Of thee whose foot-fall was as lute-playing,

Whose face was even as melody to me.

Though like leaves autumn-scattered from the trees

Thy life be shed, thy spirit did not die,

But liveth always in the sound of these;

That chord was as the glancing of thine eye!

And as I touched that tone I felt thy face

Looking on me with weary wistful gaze.