Here there is death. But even here, they say, Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon As desolate as ever the dead moon Did glimmer on dead Sardis, men were gay; And there were little children here to play, With small soft hands that once did keep in tune The strings that stretch from heaven, till too soon The change came, and the music passed away. Now there is nothing but the ghosts of things, -- No life, no love, no children, and no men; And over the forgotten place there clings The strange and unremembered light That is in dreams. The music failed, and then God frowned, and shut the village from his sight. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPISODE OF HANDS by HAROLD HART CRANE CREDO by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON AN ECHO FROM WILLOW-WOOD by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD by WALT WHITMAN KENTUCKY BELLE by CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON VILLANELLE, WITH STEVENSON'S ASSISTANCE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ANOTHER JOURNEY FROM BETHUNE TO CUINCHY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |