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 darkenng air, hearken at the opening door; Music hath called them, dreaming, Home once more. - Song of the Shadows
Riders of Skaith 