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.