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 ...