The ripe fruit rests here,

On the chill ground,

In the sterile air,

All meanings have fallen into your lap,

Uncomprehending earth.

The stubble shines in the dry field,

Gilded by the pale sun.

The trees, unburdened, with light limbs,

Shiver in the cold light.

In the meadow the goat-herd,

A young girl,

Sits with bent head,

Blind, covered head,

Bowed to the earth,

Like a tree

Dreaming a long-held dream.

The gossamers forge their cables

Between the grasses,

Secure,

So still the blue air hangs its sea,

That great sea, so still!

The earth lke a god,

Far withdrawn,

Lies asleep.