Daye 46 / The 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 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
~ Walter de la Mare