SOUNDS
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.