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.
THE SONG OF THE MAD PRINCE
Who said, 'Peacock Pie?'
The old King to the sparrow:
Who said, 'Crops are ripe?'
Rust to the harrow:
Who said, 'Where sleeps she now?'
Where rests she now her head,
Bathed in eve's loveliness'? —-
That's what I said.
Who said, 'Ay, mum's the word'?
Sexton to willow:
Who said, 'Green duck for dreams,
Moss for a pillow'?
Who said, 'All Time's delight
Hath she for narrow bed;
Life's troubled bubble broken'? —-
That's what I said.
THE SONG OF FINIS
AT the edge of All the Ages
A Knight sate on his steed,
His armor red and thin with rust
His soul from sorrow freed;
And he lifted up his visor
From a face of skin and bone,
And his horse turned head and whinnied
As the twain stood there alone.
No bird above that steep of time
Sang of a livelong quest;
No wind breathed,
Rest:
"Lone for an end!" cried Knight to steed,
Loosed an eager rein—
Charged with his challenge into space:
And quiet did quiet remain.
End of Project Gutenberg's Peacock Pie, A Book of Rhymes, by Walter de la Mare