And fiddles in the frosty moon, And all the stars of the Milky Way, And fiddles low through the dark of dawn, And laughs and fiddles in the day. He needeth not or bit or sup, The winds of night he need not fear, And (bow of gold on silver strings) It's all the peoples turn to hear. "Oh never," It's all the people cry, "Came such sweet sounds from mortal hand"; And, "Listen," they say, "it's some ghostly boy That goes a-fiddling through the land. Hark you! It's night comes slipping in,-- The moon and the stars that tread the sky; And there's the breath of the world that stops; And now with a shout the sun comes by!" Who heareth him he heedeth not But smiles content, the fiddling lad; He murmurs, "Oh many's the happy day, My fiddle and I together have had; _And could I give my fiddle To any many alive?"_ THE IMMORTAL RESIDUE Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And, as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Verse, by Adelaide Crapsey