Or when the lawn Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn, The sad intangible who grieve and yearn...

The delicate, invisible web you wove The inexplicable mystery of sound.

Who said 'Peacock Pie'? The old king to the sparrow: Who said 'Crops are ripe'? Rust to the harrow. Who said, 'Ay, mum's the word'? Sexton to willow. Who said,…

Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Aye, t…