The Song of Shadows


Walter De La Mare

Sweep thy faint strings, Musician,

With thy long, lean hand;

Downward the starry tapers burn,

Sinks soft the waning sand;

The old hound whimpers couched in sleep,

The embers smoulder low;

Across the wall the shadows

Come, and go.

Sweep softly thy strings, Musician,

The minutes mount to hours;

Frost on the windless casement weaves

A labyrinth of flowers;

Ghosts linger in the darkening air,

Hearken at the opening door;

Music hath called them, dreaming,

Home once more.

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