Classic Poem

They are taking the old piano,
They are lifting it from the floor.
To carry it to the waggon,
That stands at 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,
While out from a roseate arch.
There rang from the old piano
Bright strains of the “Bridal March.”

Or may be when long years after,
It wailed the “Dead March in Saul”
As slowly he went forever,
Enwrapped in a funeral pall.

I know by her pain drawn features,
How tightly the chords entwine,
I know that the empty corner
To her is a ruined shrine.

We're selling the old piano,
We're selling to buy us bread,
And keep for a little longer,
The old roof over her head.