Poetry Corner – de la Mare Edition

  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