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.