"The House of Dust:  A Symphony" by Conrad Aiken

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XIII.

The half-shut doors through which we heard that music
Are softly closed.  Horns mutter down to silence.
The stars whirl out, the night grows deep.
Darkness settles upon us.  A vague refrain
Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain.
In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep.

Where have we been?  What savage chaos of music
Whirls in our dreams?--We suddenly rise in darkness,
Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more.
We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming
A warm white moonlit shore;

Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight,
Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness,
Or a singing sound of rain . . .
We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness,
And enter our dreams again.

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