SOUNDS
I SHUT my eyes and all around The room is murmurous with sound, Small lovely sounds without, within, Faint as a muted violin.
On the low roof the quiet rain Falls hushingly in wistful strain, It makes soft music in the leaves, And drips staccato from the eaves.
A grey moth flutters her frail wings Against the glass; the kettle sings. Someone is reading low and clear Of Roncesvalles and Oliver.
And with this voice all sounds are blent In pensive slow accompaniment, A melody made up of rain, Young leaves, a grey moth on the pane.