When...

The years go by, and not a single thrush stirs,
The autumns and springs, the winters and summers,
The ticking of the clock stops at 3,
The morning rises in the dusk,
And the night gives in to the dawn,

The starry sky and the noon day heavens converge,
The seconds, minutes, and hours move slowly,
The sundial in the garden has no shadow,
And the shapeless forms of light and dark,
Dance a jig in the rosy bushes and laurels,
And the evening comes forth,
And the rainbows made by the raindrops of the afternoon,
Turn gray and black

And inside, the grandfather clock strikes at 4,
And all is silent in the house,

The snow falls inside the windows,
But the heat of the musty warmth of the sun,
Melts the ice cream sitting on the table,
And the flowers of the veranda,
Sprout boisterous colors,
Then quickly die,

And the world changes, and the colors fade,
And the colors of storm clouds cover everything,
And the grandfather clock strikes 5,

And the gates of the world above open,
And I leave the grayish world,
And never return,
But dwell in the house of what Is,
To see the Gray World melt away,
Never again to return.