The graveyard and the garden share 

A streetlamp like a gibbous moon. 

As crisp as frost, soft as a plume, 

Its ghostliness invades the room: 

The mirror beckons, shadows pale and stare. 

No shape, however sharp, is true. 
Darkness and hoar divide the scene. 
From what will be, from what has been 
Cut off, this world is wholly clean. 
Washed in cool unreality like dew. 

Vision absconds, as with the dying. 
Now sound, if growing more, if less, 
Sound, perfected in formlessness, 
Possesses all. Blow, or caress, 
What sound thus offers there is no denying. 

Secret as silence, in the turf 
Around the gravestones on the hill 
As in a ripening orchard, still 
Thin pulses quiver, wince, and thrill 
Like the blind shrilling of a spectral surf. 

Nothing can drown them but the voice 

That issues from the bell tower's throat, 

As one, and two, and three, the rote 

Of those bronze resonances float, 

Calling to wake, or sleep. Calling: "Rejoice!"