by Sara Teasdale
At six o'clock of an autumn dusk
 With the sky in the west a rusty red,
The bells of the mission down in the valley
 Cry out that the day is dead.
The first star pricks as sharp as steel —
 Why am I suddenly so cold?
Three bells, each with a separate sound
 Clang in the valley, wearily tolled.
Bells in Venice, bells at sea,
 Bells in the valley heavy and slow —
There is no place over the crowded world
 Where I can forget that the days go.