Crisp the evening lies,
with the songs of flight long fallen,
and around the masses hushed,
to the bell which has stopped a-callin'.

Darkness breathes the ice,
as crescent silver lights stone,
vagabond in vain searching hope,
nightime cries red alone.

Shards cold of glass crash,
to doorstep but no bed,
figure hunched like tired oak,
lay he there already dead ?

Soon black will yield to morn,
the grass fresh will shine with dew,
yet the oak still moves not,
but it's better him than you ?