A Question

Once at this window, touched by climbing boughs
Whose plenteous leaves were quivering listlessly
With some least breath of wind, through the still house,
Borne from the dim, remote old library,
I heard the organ's music, slow, profound, —
A moon-thrilled, travelling twilight of sweet sound.
Sad as the last breath of the leaves that lie

Thick, dead, and autumn-colored on the ground.
To-day a child with eager hands will try
To gain the secret of the organ's soul,
And waking it to simple melody
Smile with fond pride to think he has the whole:
Shall I, who know of old the stops and keys,
The pain and longing, the regret and peace

That stronger fingers waken and control,
Hurt his young heart by mocking him with these?