Cycle

Bells in autumn Toll a rhythm Slow and solemn Calling welcome To the kingdom Of the lonesome.

Can a sound throw Any shadow? The sift of snow Fills the furrow. Whose white arrow Fells the hero?

No trace of her, Morning's daughter, Here or yonder. The pale watcher By green water Knows the answer.

The bells of spring Will be ringing, Branches blossom, And she will come Out of darkness, All bright, to bless, Heal and hallow, And, as we know, Evoke new stir, Growth and wonder.