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 Walls 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 Open Door; Music Hath Called Them, Dreaming, Home Once More.