Children of the Night

The Dead Village

     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 unrememberable light
     That is in dreams.  The music failed, and then
     God frowned, and shut the village from His sight.