Frances Shaw

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.