He wrought at one great work for years ; The world passed by with lofty look; Sometimes his eyes were dashed with tears ; Sometimes his lips with laughter shook.
His wife and child went clothed in rags, And in a windy garret starved ; He trod his measure on the flags, And high on heaven his music carved.
Wistful he grew but never feared ; For always on the midnight skies His rich orchestral score appeared In stars and zones and galaxies.
He thought to copy down his score ; The moonlight was his lamp; he said, ‘Listen my love,’ but on the floor His wife and child were lying dead.
