IN gold and grey with fleering looks of sin

    I watch them come； by two by three by four

    Advancing slow with loutings they begin

    Their woven measure widening from the door；

    While music-men behind are straddling in

    With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor —

    And jangled dulcimers and fiddles thin

    That taunt the twirling antic through once more.

    They pause and hushed to whispers steal away.

    With cunning glances； silent go their shoon

    On creakless stairs； but far away the dogs

    Bark at some lonely farm： and haply they

    Have clambered back into the dusky moon

    That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs.