Page:Eight Harvard Poets.djvu/127

 THE FIDDLER

NCE more I thought I heard him plain, That unseen fiddler in the lane, Under the timid twilight moon, Playing his visionary strain.

No other soul was in the place As up the hill I came apace; Though once I heard him every day, I never once have seen his face.

It was my immemorial year, When rhymes came fast and blood beat clear; He too, perchance, was then alive, Now separate ghosts, we wander here.

Sometimes his ghostly rondelay Broke on my dream at dawn of day, And through my open window stole The perfumed marvel of the May.

Sometimes in midnight lanes I heard The twitter of a darkling bird, As hidden from the ashen moon, The pathos of his music stirred.

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