When the full fields begin to smell of sunrise

And the valleys sing in their sleep,

The pilgrim moon pours over the solemn darkness

Her waterfalls of silence,

And then departs, up the long avenue of trees.

The stars hide, in the glade, their light, like tears,

And tremble where some train runs, lost,

Baying in eastward mysteries of distance,

Where fire flares, somewhere, over a sink of cities.

Now kindle in the windows of this ladyhouse, my soul,

Your childish, clear awakeness:

Burn in the country night

Your wise and sleepless lamp.

Por, from the frowning tower, the windy belfry,

Sudden the bells come, bridegrooms,

And fill the echoing dark with love and fear.

Wake in the windows of Gethsemani, my soul, my sister,

For the past years, with smokey torches, come,

Bringing betrayal from the burning world

And bloodying the glade with pitch flame.

Wake in the cloisters of the lonely night, my soul, my sister,

Where the apostles gather, who were, one time, scattered,

And mourn God’s blood in the place of His betrayal,

And weep with Peter at the triple cock-crow.