The fields grow dim; the sombre millsStand crucified against the skies;Blue in the distance riseThe ancient hills.
The stars come softly, and the leastLast wind is dead as dead desires;A swarm of silver spiresFades in the East.
The heavy thoughts that dwelt with meSlip from me soundless, as the deadSink to their quiet bedFar out to sea.
The stars are empty of concern,The earth is empty of unrest;Almost the burning WestHas ceased to burn.
Grey rivers and grey roads, and dellsHaving the darkness at their heart;From valleys, far apart,The noise of bells.
