The day is winding down,
And there is no one left at all;
A cloud has spread across the sky,
Like slipping on a shawl —
I do not stay for beauty here;
It’s cold and gray and bleak —
But this place listens to me when
    I do not speak.

I thought heard a voice,
As though a curtain, dark and long
Had been rolled back to show a scene
Of us, both young and strong —
But vainly do I look, and look,
For what I should not seek —
For this place brings to life the words
    I dare not speak.

The trees are restless, shivering,
The river’s flowing slow,
The leaves are gone, and it
Is time to go —

Wherever the unspoken goes,
I hope the queen of grace
Will grant to it an audience,
And let it show its face

And use it’s voice
Like angels, or the birds,
When finally it’s where
It knows

The words