by A. E. Housman (1859 – 1936)
I wake from dreams and turning
My vision on the height
I scan the beacons burning
About the fields of night.
Each in its steadfast station
Inflaming heaven they flare;
They sign with conflagration
The empty moors of air.
The signal-fires of morning
They blaze but none regard;
And on through night to morning
The world runs ruinward.
