On Leaving Bruges
The city's steeple-towers remove away, Each singly; as each vain infatuate Faith Leaves God in heaven, and passes. A mere breath Each soon appears, so far. Yet that which lay The first is now scarce further or more grey Than the last is. Now all are wholly gone. The sunless sky has not once had the sun Since the first weak beginning of the day. The air falls back as the wind finishes, And the clouds stagnate. On the water's face The current breathes along, but is not stirred. There is no branch that thrills with any bird. Winter is to possess the earth a space, And have its will upon the extreme seas.
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