I

The girl in the room beneath 
Before going to bed 
Strums on a mandolin 
The three simple tunes she knows. 
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels! 
When she has finished them several times 
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails 
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.

II

I stood for a long while before the shop window 
Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk. 
The building was a tower before me, 
Time was loud behind me, 
Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees; 
And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless, 
Stitched in a golden sky 
By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.

III

The first bell is silver, 
And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time. 
The second bell is crimson, 
And I think of a holiday night, with rockets 
Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars. 
The third bell is saffron and slow, 
And I behold a long sunset over the sea 
With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades. 
The fourth bell is color of bronze, 
I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk: 
Muffled crackings run in the ice, 
Trees creak, birds fly. 
The fifth bell is cold clear azure, 
Delicately tinged with green: 
One golden star hangs melting in it, 
And towards this, sleepily, I go. 
The sixth bell is as if a pebble 
Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . . 
Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.

IV

On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, 
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; 
And talkng constrainedly of this and that 
We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us. 
When we reached the cemetery 
We found that the thin snow on the grass 
Was already transparent with rain; 
And boards had been laid upon it 
That we might walk without wetting our feet.

V

When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles 
In many lengths along a wall 
I was dissappointed to find 
That I could not play music upon them: 
I ran my hand lightly across them 
And they fell, tinkling. 
I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life 
Will not be too great.

VI

It is now two hours since I left you, 
And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands. 
And though since then 
I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets, 
And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground 
Under the trees, 
I still remember the sound of your laughter. 
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you 
Even as long as this? 
Will the dust braid your hair?

VII

The day opens with the brown light of snowfall 
And past the window snowflakes fall and fall. 
I sit in my chair all day and work and work 
Measuring words against each other. 
I open the piano and play a tune 
But find it does not say what I feel, 
I grow tired of measuring words against each other, 
I grow tired of these four walls, 
And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter 
And named her after your first sweetheart, 
And you, who break your heart, far away, 
In the confusion and savagery of a long war, 
And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter, 
Will soon go south. 
The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light 
Past my window, 
And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge. 
This alone comes to me out of the world outside 
As I measure word with word.

VIII

Many things perplex me and leave me troubled, 
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars 
Never to be opened by me. 
The starr'd leaves are silently turned, 
And the mooned leaves; 
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death. 
Perplexed and troubled, 
I light a small light in a small room, 
The lighted walls come closer to me, 
The familiar pictures are clear. 
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind 
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written, 
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming 
From I know not where.

How many times have I sat here, 
How many times will I sit here again, 
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude 
As a child says over and over 
The first word he has learned to say.

IX

This girl gave her heart to me, 
And this, and this. 
This one looked at me as if she loved me, 
And silently walked away. 
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.

Shall I count them for you upon my fingers? 
Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads? 
Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white, 
And arrange them for you in a wide bowl 
To be set in sunlight?