At six o'clock of an autumn dusk
⁠With the sky in the west a rusty red,
The bells of the mission down in the valley
⁠Cry out that the day is dead.

The first star pricks as sharp as steel—
⁠Why am I suddenly so cold?
Three bells, each with a separate sound
⁠Clang in the valley, wearily tolled.

Bells in Venice, bells at sea,
⁠Bells in the valley heavy and slow—
There is no place over the crowded world
⁠Where I can forget that the days go.