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.