As with the bronze ashes a brazier,
The garden is strewing bugs in dream.
Along with me, with my bright candle,
There hang the worlds in blossoming.
And as into the faith unprecendented
I'm passing in that very night,
Where a poplar-tree, so grey-decrepit,
Has covered all the moon's light path,
Where the pond is like a secret,
Which's opened in an apple-tree surf,
Where the garden hangs like a building
On piles, carrying the skies in front.
1912