Music in a Dug Out
THE hour is drowsed with things of sleep
That round my tottering senses creep
Like subtle wandering scents, so rare
They might ensweeten fairies’ hair;
And I am walking in a glade
With gold and green and purple made
Unearthly beautiful:
And, oh, the air is very cool!
I see green lawns between the trees,
And cows and sheep upon the leas,
And, in the distance, hills;
And at my feet cool, mossy rills
Empurpled with the wavering shade
Of trees and bushes in the glade ;
And ever I rejoice
And ever sings a voice.
I see—but, sudden the singing ceases,
Splintering my dream in pieces—
I see, in waving candle light
That cowers and flickers in a draft,
A low-roofed den—a hole of night—
That leaks to heaven by creaky shaft;
A table (where the candle stands
In bottle streaked with frozen strands
Of tallow drippings), strewn with tins
And cans, just tiny refuse bins
With smelling slops of tea and jam
And twisted greasy bits of ham ;
And belts hung round the dingy walls
Like horses’ harness in their stalls ;
And in the corner gloom, alone—
A dusty, silent gramophone!
