The wind, which moves purple treetops,

Is God’s breath that comes and goes.

The black village rises before the forest;

Three shadows are laid over the field.

Meagerly the valley dusks

Below and silent for the humble.

A seriousness greets in garden and hall,

That wants to finish the day,

Piously and darkly an organ-sound.

Mary is enthroned there in blue vestment

And cradles her babe in hand.

The night is starlit and long.