⁠A hank of rope-yarn limply dangles
⁠Like rotted hair, and in the tangles
The swallow built her last year's nest.

An old dog-collar set with bells
⁠Swings from a hook by clasp and tether,
With rude embroidery that spells
⁠"Diana" worked upon the leather.
A flute too, when the woodsman died,
⁠The men who dug his grave forgot here ;
⁠The dog, his only friend, they shot here
And laid her by her master's side.

But while I sit in reverie,
⁠A field-mouse near me shrilly crying,
The squirrel barking from his tree,
⁠And from the marsh the frogs replying—
Then eerie shudders o'er me shoot,
⁠As if I caught from out the dingle
⁠Diana's bells once more a-jingle
And echoes of the dead man's flute.