In Divers Tones

A little music in their ears perchance, A grain more savor to their nostrils, sweet Tho scarce accounted of. But when for me The mists of Acheron have striven up, And horror was shed round me when my knees Relaxed, my tongue clave speechless, they forgot. And when my sharp cry cut the moveless night, And days and nights my wailings clamored up And beat about their golden homes perchance They shut their ears. No happy music this.