Where the light’s bells ring

Morning on the river,

Waking the town to its round of spires

And burials, is only half

The world; this very light shapes a country

Green of leaf and river

In the sleep of the dead voyagers;

Or their death also

Is a river where morning returns

And is welcome.

The scarlet bird chanting

Its renewal in a tree of shade

As constantly sings

To their earthen unhearing ears.

The ghosts of the voyagers are gay

In the total sleep of their bones.

From the green noon shade of the river

Their vision slowly loves the sky,

Accepting bird flight, dawn and dark;

Rage for flesh and possession over,

They are gentle now; their boats, swamped

With voyages and drowned, release the stream.

Through the broad country of their sleep,

Burnished towers and belfries of the sun,

The river runs to noon forever;

The clear light rings with bees.