Harpsichord

Now ye, the delicate patterers of the hush, Wings, hither! Scarce-rustlers of the sere involvéd leaf Who mourn for summers past with elfin grief, Ye who can hear along the inmost lawn Ebbings and flowings shrill When subtle ballads net the rime-cold daffodil And drift over the blue turf so nigh dumb They startle not from’s gloom e’en the airy fawn. Old Antony on his Nile-barge at dawn Caught your deck-walkings countless overhead And eased with ye a heart eclipsed and dead. Come swift, come soon Drift, like a veil over the moon, And rising round this crumbling Keep Shed ye, upon the sleepless, sleep.