Bells in the pasture and whistles,

and meadows golden all day,

silent green wells, green thistles,

and my highroad leading away.

Risen from dew, trees blazing

like metal or glass in the sun.

I will never stop breathing and gazing.

I’ll die and walk on, walk on.

Going to his room one night,

he locked his door and by lamp-light

counted his money, counted his foes.

Then from the table of his heart

he struck off every name but one,

which would be there till time was done.

Then rising, he turned off the light.

Sprouting feathers, wings, and bill,

he hopped onto the window sill,

and sailed, a bird, into the night.