Lift your hand to the window latch: Sighing, turn and move away. More than mortal swords are crossed On thresholds at the end of day; The fading air is stained with red Since Time was k**ed and now lies dead. Or Time was lost. But someone saw Though nobody spoke and nobody will, While in the clock against the wall The guiltless minute hand is still:
The watchful room, the breathless light Be hosts to you this final night. Over the gently-turning hills Travel a journey with your eyes In forward footsteps, chance a**ault— This way the map of living lies. And this the journey you must go Through gra** and sheaves and, lastly, snow.