Malade - Kostenloses Hörbuch

GREY EVENING

WHEN you went, how was it you carried with you
     My missal book of fine, flamboyant hours?
     My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers,
     And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue?

     Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heaped
     Beyond the withering snow of the shorn fields
     Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped
     And garnered that the golden daylight yields.

     Dim lamps like yellow poppies glimmer among
     The shadowy stubble of the under-dusk,
     As farther off the scythe of night is swung,
     And little stars come rolling from their husk.

     And all the earth is gone into a dust
     Of greyness mingled with a fume of gold,
     Covered with aged lichens, pale with must,
     And all the sky has withered and gone cold.

     And so I sit and scan the book of grey,
     Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading,
     All fearful lest I find the last words bleeding
     With wounds of sunset and the dying day.