They Are Taking the Old Piano

They're taking the old piano,
 * They're lifting it from the floor.

A carrier's cart is waiting
 * Outside the old home door.

And Mother is mutely watching
 * With tears on her faded cheek;

I wonder of what she's thinking,
 * Her heart is too full to speak.

Perhaps of the day he brought her,
 * When out from a wreathed arch

There rang from the old piano
 * Bright bars of a bridal march.

Or maybe when long years after
 * It wailed the dead march in Saul,

As slowly he went for ever
 * Enwrapped in funeral pall.

I know by her pain drawn features
 * How tightly it's chords entwine,

I know the piano corner
 * To her is a wasted shrine.