In the loved melancholy of grey evening
We smoke and are still ...

In the loved melancholy of grey evening
Mountains rimming the world in a misty ring
Circle our hill of dark green timber, and wild garden, and rose-pillared house.
Roll, you clouds, from east to west,
You smokes from the pipe of the coming Night ...
Glistening he comes, the shaggy wanderer,
Brooding on the dark hard Earth.

Round us the trees are singing
A reminiscence from the dawn of time
When their tips peeped from the floods
And the song of the sea was heard ...

Like surf, they sing ...

In the loved melancholy of grey evening
This sound has the joy of strong dark things.
Roll, you smokes, from east to west,
The grey old Chief puffs his pipe of Peace ...
His cold rain-air shall be lead on your eyelids
And deep sleep draw us down ...

We smoke and are still:
The heart is vague with strong dark things, with roots and Earth,
With age like rocks;
Its throb is warm with the dark human.

But we are still,
But we are very still,
In the loved melancholy of grey evening,
O hushed, remote and still,
In the loved melancholy of grey evening,