PLAY me a march, low-tonâ??d and slowâ??a march for a silent tread,
Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead,
Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead.
HOW slowly creeps the hand of Time
On the old clockâ??s green-mantled face!
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb,
The hours roll round with patient pace; ...
THERE is a singing in the summer air,
The blue and brown moths flutter oâ??er the grass,
The stubble bird is creaking in the wheat,
And perchâ??d upon the honeysuckle-hedge ...