VII
Bells
 

At six o'clock of an autumn dusk
  With the sky in the west a rusty red,
The bells of the mission down in the valley
  Cry out that the day is dead.

The first star pricks as sharp as steel --
  Why am I suddenly so cold?
Three bells, each with a separate sound
  Clang in the valley, wearily tolled.

Bells in Venice, bells at sea,
  Bells in the valley heavy and slow --
There is no place over the crowded world
  Where I can forget that the days go.