  I SHUT my eyes and all around The room is murmurous with sound, Small lovely sounds without, within, Faint as a muted violin. On the low roof the quiet rain Falls hushingly in wistful strain, It makes soft music in the leaves, And drips staccato from the eaves. A grey moth flutters her frail wings Against the glass; the kettle sings. Someone is reading low and clear Of Roncesvalles and Oliver. And with this voice all sounds are blent In pensive slow accompaniment, A melody made up of rain, Young leaves, a grey moth on the pane. |
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