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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET (6) by GEORGE SANTAYANA MONOLOGUE FROM A MATTRESS by LOUIS UNTERMEYER RIVALRY IN LOVE by WILLIAM WALSH (1663-1707) AGAMEMNON: THE SACRIFICE OF IPHIGENIA. CHORUS by AESCHYLUS SEPTEMBER: FEAST OF ST. PARTRIDGE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT HOMUNCULUS IN PENUMBRA by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |