In a dark park under an alder
At the midnight dim
A white swan out of paddle
Hided its head in wings.
I'm - memory, I'm - the hearing,
You're with me - a sad light shadow,
Here I see - that's your footprint,
Which was washed by a storm of years.
In the shades of the mournful alder
There's a sweet odour's smell,
In the mat foliage a soul there
Still is chirring, waits.
But after the storm of the ardent years
Everything seems like a ghost, just a rave,
Everything passed, all, that had been,
All had gone into the pond's haze.
June 1909