When snow falls against the window,
Long sounds the evening bell...
For so many has the table
Been prepared, the house set in order.
There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls.
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here.
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts- -
How sad this evening.
The blueness dies out in my eyes tonight,
the red gold of my heart. O how still the light burns!
Your cloak of sadness encircles the long descent.
Your red lips seal your friend’s unhinging.
At The Moor
Wanderer in the blackened wind. Dry reeds whisper
in the stillness of the moor. A column of savage birds
ensues in the dawning sky.
Over murky waters they cross.
In the evening the sky was overcast.
And through the grove full of silence and grief
A dark-golden shower went.
Distant evening bells faded away.
It is a light, that the wind has extinguished.
It is a pub on the heath, that a drunk departs in the afternoon.
It is a vineyard, charred and black with holes full of spiders.
It is a space, that they have white-limed with milk.