the glory is fallen out of
the sky the last immortal
leaf
is dead and the gold
year
a formal spasm
in the
dust
this is the passing of all shining things
therefore we also
blandly
into receptive
earth, O let
us
descend
take
shimmering wind
these fragile splendors from
us crumple them hide
them in thy breath drive
them in nothingness
for we
would sleep
this is the passing of all shining things
no lingering no backward-
wondering be unto
us O
soul, but straight
glad feet fear ruining
and glory girded
faces
lead us
into the
serious
steep darkness
