At midnight when the moonlit cypress¹ trees Have woven round his grave a magic shade, Still weeping the unfinished hymn² he made, There moves fresh Maia like a morning breeze Blown over jonquil beds when warm rains cease. And stooping where her poet's head is laid, Selene weeps while all the tides are stayed And swaying seas are darkened into peace. But they who wake the meadows and the tides Have hearts too kind to bid him wake from sleep Who murmurs³ sometimes when his dreams are deep, Startling the Quiet Land where he abides⁴, And charming still, sad-eyed Persephone With visions of the sunny earth and sea.