A Song of Shadows

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 walls 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 open door Music hath called them, dreaming, Home once more.