The heaven-reflecting, usual moon Scarred by thin branches, flows between the simple sky, its light half-gone. The evening hills of risen green. Safely below the mountain crest A little clench of sheep holds fast. The lean spire hovers like a mast over its hulk of leaves, and moss and those who, locked within a dream, make between church and cot their way beside the secret-springing stream That turns towards an unknown sea: And there is neither night nor day. Sorrow nor pain, eternally.