My house stands high—
Where the harp of the wind
Plays all day,
Plays all night;
And the city light
Is far away.
Where hangs the harp that the winds play?—
High in the air—
Over the sea?
The long straight streets of the far-away town,
Where the lines of light go sweeping down,
Are the strings of its minstrelsy.
And the harp of the wind
Gives to the wind
A song of the city’s tears;
Thin and faint, the cry of a child,
Plaint of the soul unreconciled,
A song of the passing years.