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Edwin Arlington Robinson - 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. 

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Added: Jun 3 2005 | Viewed: 199 times | Comments and analysis of The Dead Village by Edwin Arlington Robinson Comments (0)

The Dead Village - Comments and Information

Poet: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Poem: The Dead Village
Poem of the Day: Apr 11 2015
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