In every night some haggard hours there are Whose passing is unnoted, save by those Unconquered by dim slumber and her shows; The wretched and the houseless near and far, And those for whom the night cannot unbar The common gate to her divine repose, Whose nerves are torn by living and its woes, Until they sink in some melee of war. These know and these alone the secret things: The mysteries which those who see must die: The silent spaces of which no one sings: The grey death-minutes fading, till on high Aloft there flash the sudden glorious wings Of dawn and fill with light the hollow sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BALLAD OF THE FOXHUNTER by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE PIAZZA OF ST. MARK AT MIDNIGHT by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH MON REPOS (MY MOTHER'S GIRLHOOD HOME) by ALFRED BARRETT FASHION; A DIALOGUE by JAMES HAY BEATTIE WHERE THE DEAD MEN LIE by BARCROFT HENRY BOAKE |