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