The moon leans mirrored on the dark guitar
As though she fears its cadences unheard
May lapse into the night. Oh! I am stirred
By some some rare tone afar
Caught from the drifting Palaces of Cold, 1
Where pale musicians through the moon-mists peer,
And challenged into song. Of waters rolled
Seaward I sing. Now clear
Now muffled in the wreathèd haze, now fall
My chords far strangled down the forest. All
My cares are centred in the strings, and I forget
That night and dawn on the long grey line have met.