A bluff of cliff, purple against the south,

And nigh one shoulder-top an orange pane.

This wet, clean road; clear twilight held in the pools,

And ragged thorns, ghost reeds and dim, dead willows.

Past all the windings of these grey, forgotten valleys,

To west, past clouds that close on one dim rift—

The golden plains; the infinite, glimpsing distances,

The eternal silences; dim lands of peace.

Infinite plains to know no wanderer’s foot; infinite distances where alone is rest;

All-virgin downs where none shall pasture sheep; inviolable peaks that none shall climb,

From whose summit nor you nor I shall gaze on ocean’s infinite beyond,

Nor none look back upon this world folding to-night, to rain and to sleep.