There is a harper plays
Through the long watches of the lonely night
When, like a cemetery,
Sleeps the dark city, with her millions laid each in his tomb.
I feel it in my dream; but when I wake,
Suddenly, like some secret thing not to be overheard,
It ceases
And the gray night grows dumb.
Only in memory
Linger, those veiled adagios, fading, fading . . .
Till, with the morning, they are lost.
What door was opened then ?
What worlds undreamed of lie around us in our sleep,
That yet we may not know ?
Where is it one sat playing
Over and over, with such high and dreadful peace,
The passion and sorrow of the eternal doom?
