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Each time the setting sun,
At eve when all is still,
Doth reach a pale faint finger in
To touch them one by one;
O what an inward thrill
Of music makes them swell!
The prisoned song-pulse beats within
And almost breaks the spell.
Each time the ghostly moon
Among the shadows gleams,
And leads them in a mournful dance
To some mysterious tune;
O then, indeed, it seems
Strange muffled tones repeat
The wail within me, and perchance
The measure of the feet.
But often when the ring
Of some sweet voice is near,
Or past me the light garments brush
Soft as a spirit's wing,—
