Poetry Corner – 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 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.


- Walter de la Mare