Sara Teasdale — Bells

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