by your leave, in your narrow room.
A button's press, a favored chance,
keeps them living in the tomb.
Singing still, in sweet remembrance,
kept from the eternal gloom.
Raise the fallen. Bid them play,
and marvel, for, once, long ago,
this simple pleasure of your day
was only for the few to know,
and you surpass them, in a way.
You have the might that time bestows.
Old kingdoms' wealths? A starving wage.
They had their jugglers. You, at will,
have all the players of your age,
be they dead, or living still,
to play for you, upon your stage,
and not stop till you've had your fill.
And you risk not your mortal soul,
and you feel not the slightest fear,
and conjuration takes no toll:
no trace of haunting lingers here.
A pleasure that leaves, on the whole,
a king's wealth, next to yours, austere.