They have made a quiet for him,
All the lovely dead who loved him
Have returned and move about him,
Cooling him with their pale shadows.

What in life they could not give him
Of their love they now bring to him,
Transmuted, so that it may serve him,
Into hush and drift of music.

Now one leaves the swaying circle,
Goes to him where he lies sleeping,
And the strangeness of her being
Like a moonlight, leans above him.