Like a violinist lost in the whisperings of the trees,
Like the cloaked phantoms that no one sees,
Like a rich chocolate, and a dark red wine,
In a wooded glen, where only the moon will shine.
The ticking and bonging of the clock,
The muffled footsteps of a stranger on a walk,
The burnt stumps of candles of wax,
And the white stag that leaves no tracks.
The silky brush of cold air,
The music fading to somewhere.
Midnight, midnight, toll the bells,
As is calm, and all the wells.
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