The old houses of Flanders,

They watch by the high cathedrals;

They overtop the high town-halls;

They have eyes, mournful, tolerant and sardonic, for the ways of men

In the high, white, tiled gables.

The rain and the night have settled down on Flanders;

It is all wet darkness; you can see nothing.

Then those old eyes, mournful, tolerant and sardonic,

Look at great, sudden, red lights,

Look upon the shades of the cathedrals;

And the golden rods of the illuminated rain,

For a second …

And those old eyes,

Very old eyes that have watched the ways of men for generations,

Close for ever.

The high, white shoulders of the gables

Slouch together for a consultation,

Slant drunkenly over in the lea of the flaming cathedrals.

They are no more, the old houses of Flanders.