I was once a baritone,
Timbre like the weight of stone,
And yet in the aching arms of a piano
I could weep and keep the sweetest soprano,
But that was long ago, you see,
When the curtains rose just for me,
And not for choruses, such as now I abide,
Like an tuneless trumpet, by the side.
I have no voice left, so to speak,
Just a twig of pitch, dry and weak,
Which I wring each day, north and south
For a morsel to fill my mortal mouth,
So in glory of the dream slain past
Could I sail again, against this motion vast,
Of arpeggios the world claim true,
That once left my falsetto in ruin and rue.
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