AT six o'clock of an autumn dusk br With the sky in the west a rusty red, br The bells of the mission down in the valley br Cry out that the day is dead. br The first star pricks as sharp as steel— br Why am I suddenly so cold? br Three bells, each with a separate sound br Clang in the valley, wearily tolled. br Bells in Venice, bells at sea, br Bells in the valley heavy and slow— br There is no place over the crowded world br Where I can forget that the days go.