
My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers/ And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue?

Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped/ And garnered that the golden daylight yields.

As farther off the scythe of night is swung,/ And little stars come rolling from their husk.

Covered with aged lichens, past with must,/ And all the sky has withered and gone cold.

All fearful lest I find the last words bleeding/ With wounds of sunset and the dying day.

