Night

The night is old, and all the world Is wearied out with strife; A long gray mist lies heavy and wan Above the house of life. Four stars burn up and are unquelled By the low, shrunken moon; Her spirit draws her down and down-- She shall be buried soon. There is a sound that is no sound, Yet fine it falls and clear, The whisper of the spinning earth To the tranced atmosphere. An odour lives where once was air, A strange, unearthly scent, From the burning of the four great stars Within the firmament. The universe, deathless and old, Breathes, yet is void of breath: As still as death that seems to move And yet is still as death.