Ghosts by Elaine Hugh-Jones Lyrics

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 wall 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 opening door;
Music hath called them, dreaming
Home once more