The night is old, and all the world
Is wearied out with strife;
A long gray mist lies heavy and wan
Above the house of life.
Four stars burn up and are unquelled
By the low, shrunken moon;
Her spirit draws her down and down--
She shall be buried soon.
There is a sound that is no sound,
Yet fine it falls and clear,
The whisper of the spinning earth
To the tranced atmosphere.
An odour lives where once was air,
A strange, unearthly scent,
From the burning of the four great stars
Within the firmament.
The universe, deathless and old,
Breathes, yet is void of breath:
As still as death that seems to move
And yet is still as death.
