The poem
In gold and grey, with fleering looks of sin, I watch them come; by two, by three, by four, Advancing slow, with loutings they begin Their woven measure, widening from the door; While music-men behind are straddling in With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor,- And jangled dulcimers, and fiddles thin That taunt the twirling antic through once more.
They pause, and hushed to whispers, steal away. With cunning glances; silent go their shoon On creakless stairs; but far away the dogs Bark at some lonely farm: and haply they Have clambered back into the dusky moon That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs.