A bell in the wind
F. Hart
The sun goes out, and leaves
To the young dusk a cry,
The cry of one who grieves
And is like to die.
There the old houses stand
Down the sunken road;
It clutches them like hand
At throat; it drives like goad.
Along the salmon dusk
A hundred hurts of life;
Around and through it all,
The smell of the wild musk
Is sharp as any knife.