SOUNDS
ISHUT my eyes and all aroundThe room is murmurous with sound,Small lovely sounds without, within,Faint as a muted violin.On the low roof the quiet rainFalls hushingly in wistful strain,It makes soft music in the leaves,And drips staccato from the eaves.A grey moth flutters her frail wingsAgainst the glass; the kettle sings.Someone is reading low and clearOf Roncesvalles and Oliver.And with this voice all sounds are blentIn pensive slow accompaniment,A melody made up of rain,Young leaves, a grey moth on the pane.
ISHUT my eyes and all aroundThe room is murmurous with sound,Small lovely sounds without, within,Faint as a muted violin.On the low roof the quiet rainFalls hushingly in wistful strain,It makes soft music in the leaves,And drips staccato from the eaves.A grey moth flutters her frail wingsAgainst the glass; the kettle sings.Someone is reading low and clearOf Roncesvalles and Oliver.And with this voice all sounds are blentIn pensive slow accompaniment,A melody made up of rain,Young leaves, a grey moth on the pane.
ISHUT my eyes and all aroundThe room is murmurous with sound,Small lovely sounds without, within,Faint as a muted violin.
On the low roof the quiet rainFalls hushingly in wistful strain,It makes soft music in the leaves,And drips staccato from the eaves.
A grey moth flutters her frail wingsAgainst the glass; the kettle sings.Someone is reading low and clearOf Roncesvalles and Oliver.
And with this voice all sounds are blentIn pensive slow accompaniment,A melody made up of rain,Young leaves, a grey moth on the pane.