"Sweep thy faint strings, Musician, br With thy long lean hand; br Downward the starry tapers burn, br Sinks soft the waning sand; br The old hound whimpers couched in sleep, br The embers smoulder low; br Across the walls the shadows br Come, and go. br br Sweep softly thy strings, Musician, br The minutes mount to hours; br Frost on the windless casement weaves br A labyrinth of flowers; br Ghosts linger in the darkening air, br Hearken at the open door; br Music hath called them, dreaming, br Home once more.