huddle together in fear. 

 Slow comes the dawning in the East; Pale light on the earth is shed, And cool and dewy blows the wind Over the writhen dead; Pale light, which fades in the growing glare Of the flames that swirl and leap Through corridor, and bower, and hall, On carven pillar and painted wall; The flames that like sickles reap 

 A barren harvest of kingly things, To be bound in ashy sheaves, While driven forth by the work of his hands, Stumbles the last of the thieves. Behind him is fire, ruin, and death, Before him the kine-sweet morn, But vases of silver and cups of gold And hoarded treasures fashioned of old On his blood-stained back are borne. 

 ***** 

*****

 Is it the night-wind alone that blows shuddering Down the dim corridors, tangled with weeds; Is it a bat's wing, or is it an owl's wing That silently passes, as thistledown seeds, In the Hall, where the small owlet breeds? 

 Here do the moonbeams come, slithering, wandering Over the faded, pale frescoes that stand Faint and remote on the walls that are mouldering, Crowned with a King's crown, or flowers in hand, —Pale ghosts of a gaily-dressed band. 

 Faintly they gaze on the wide desolation; Faintly they smile when the white moonbeams play Over the dust of the throne-room of Minos, Over the pavements where small creatures stray, The humble small things of a day. 

 But there are other nights, moonless and starless, When no moth flutters, no bat flits, owl calls, Something is stirring, something is rustling, Something that is not of mortals befalls In galleries, cellars, and halls. 

 Soundless and viewless, a strange ghostly happening, Life, long since ashes, and flames, long since dead; For the Angel of Time goes relentlessly, steadily Over dark places that mankind has fled; And the dust is not stirred by that tread. 

 

 

 A SUN-DIAL IN A GARDEN 

 Across the quiet garden sunlight flows In wave on wave like water, heavy bees Hang drowsily upon the drowsy flowers, For it is very still, and all the trees Are pyramided high in green and gold. There is a sun-dial there to mark the hours Where time is not, where time has grown so old It does not move now; yet the shadow goes 

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