Then night, the healer, with unnoticed breath, And sleep, dark sleep, so near, so like to death. The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest, One burning sea of gold. The large bright drops Shrink in the leaves. Thin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokes The wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks.
Faint wefts creep out along the blue and die.
The thud of dropping apples. The City of the End of Things. Through its grim depths re-echoing And all its weary height of walls, With measured roar and iron ring, The inhuman music lifts and falls. The beat, the thunder and the hiss Cease not, and change not, night nor day. And with the master's touch shall flee Their incommunicable skill.