Here there is death. But even here, they say, <br />Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon <br />As desolate as ever the dead moon <br />Did glimmer on dead Sardis, men were gay; <br />And there were little children here to play, <br />With small soft hands that once did keep in tune <br />The strings that stretch from heaven, till too soon <br />The change came, and the music passed away. <br /> <br />Now there is nothing but the ghosts of things,— <br />No life, no love, no children, and no men; <br />And over the forgotten place there clings <br />The strange and unrememberable light <br />That is in dreams. The music failed, and then <br />God frowned, and shut the village from His sight.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dead-village/
