Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/18

 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,—