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...SONG FOR THE LUDDITES by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE FACE ON THE [BAR-ROOM] FLOOR by HUGH ANTOINE D'ARCY JOSEPH'S COAT by GEORGE HERBERT THE DEAD LEAF by ANTOINE VINCENT ARNAULT VERSES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN A BURIAL-GROUND .. SOCIETY OF FRIENDS by BERNARD BARTON CHIVALRY AND SLAVERY, SELECTION by JOHN BURKE |