Always it was the old songs moved us most,
For always there were other voices near,
A silver singing threading like a ghost,
A thinner music than our ears could hear;
So that we sang more softly than we might,
As leaving room for some expected tone;
Our singing was half listening in the night,
For other singing drowned along our own,

And always there was silence at the end,
For something that beguiled us with the thought
Of presences returning, friend to friend.
Seeking again the fellowship they sought,
Pleased that we sing old songs they still may know,
Who sang with us, or listened, long ago.