The Horn is Broken
Turning, in the valley of the afternoon,
the bronze lights of the river ferry West,
and what we kept of piety or jest
goes with them to their rest.
Events are made; we know them when we wake,
and all the day is heavy as a spar,
and streams are sundered where the shallows are,
and some fall to the weir,
and some to rain.
The sword will not shine on the tower again:
only a glint along the tangled sea
that eyes of stone will not perceive,
and water fleeing silently,
and pounded salt of me.