Bells
Sara Teasdale
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.
