When you went, how was it you carried with you br My missal book of fine, flamboyant hours? br My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers, br And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue? br br Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heaped br Beyond the withering snow of the shorn fields br Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped br And garnered that the golden daylight yields. br br Dim lamps like yellow poppies glimmer among br The shadowy stubble of the under-dusk, br As farther off the scythe of night is swung, br And little stars come rolling from their husk. br br And all the earth is gone into a dust br Of greyness mingled with a fume of gold, br Covered with aged lichens, past with must, br And all the sky has withered and gone cold. br br And so I sit and scan the book of grey, br Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading, br All fearful lest I find the last words bleeding br With wounds of sunset and the dying day.