Like wistful ghosts beneath a waning moon

Seeking a land they have no hope to find

Roving freely as homeless as a fitful wind

Faint notes arise and soften to silence swoon
 

To silence swoon but not to death for soon

They wake once more and in the soul unbind

Vague memories through which dim ages pined

To rend their cerements and stare at full noon
 

For whom do those tears all unbidden rise?

What star now dust looked on such throes

That had no hearer while its grief outpours?
 

No answer in the moaning music resides

And at the shadowy Gate of Mystery stands

A mute angel with his lifted scythe of quietus
 

The City of Angels.

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