The Night Is Old, And All The World Is Wearied Out With Strife; A Long Gray Mist Lies Heavy And Wan Above The House Of Life. Four Stars Burn Up And Are Unquelled By The Low, Shrunken Moon; Her Spirit Draws Her Down And Down - She Shall Be Buried Soon. There Is A Sound That Is No Sound, Yet Fine It Falls And Clear, The Whisper Of The Spinning Earth To The Tranced Atmosphere. An Odour Lives Where Once Was Air, A Strange, Unearthly Scent, From The Burning Of The Four Great Stars Within The Firmament. The Universe, Deathless And Old, Breathes, Yet Is Void Of Breath: As Still As Death That Seems To Move And Yet Is Still As Death.