Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/188



And the brown clay is runneled by the rain. . . ." A moment since, the sheep that crop the grass Had long blue shadows, and the grass-tips sparkled: Now all grows old. . . . O voices strangely speaking, Voices of man and woman, voices of bells, Diversely making comment on our time Which flows and bears us with it into dusk, Repeat the things you say! Repeat them slowly Upon this air, make them an incantation For ancient tower, old wall, the purple twilight, This dust, and me. But all I hear is silence, And something that may be leaves or may be sea. 174