"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
Come, and go.
Sweep softly thy strings,
Musician,
The minutes mount to hours;
Frost on the windless casement weavesA labyrinth of flowers;
Ghosts linger in the darkening air,
Hearken at the open door;
Music hath called them, dreaming,
Home once more."
