The rust-red moon above the rose-red cloud,

Ethereal gifts of the absconding sun

That now is shining full on other lands

And soon will draw its track a hundred mules

Across the quiet breast of the hushed Atlantic.

The smoke grows up, solid, an ashen tree

From the high Abbey chimney. A sycamore

Holds on its topmost tip a singing thrush,

Its breast turned towards the sign of the buried sun.

Chance only brings such rare felicities

Beyond contrivance of the adventuring mind,

Strange past all meaning, set in their place alone.

Now the moon rises clear and fever pale

Out from the cloud’s dissolving drift of ashes,

While in my mind, in double absence, hangs

The rust-red moon above the rose-red cloud.