Again at the blooming window the church tower’s shadow

And golden shape return. The hot forehead burns down in rest and silence.

A fountain falls in the darkness of chestnut branches—

There you feel: it is good! in painful exhaustion.

The market is empty of summer fruits and garlands.

Harmoniously the gates’ blackish pageantry attunes.

In a garden the tones of soft play sound

Where friends find each other after the meal.

The soul likes to listen to the white magician’s fairy tales.

Roundly the corn swishes, cut by mowers in the afternoon.

The hard life is patiently silent in the huts;

A stable lamp shines upon the dulcet slumber of the cows.

Eyelids soon sink inward drunk with air

And quietly open to foreign constellations.

Endymion rises from the darkness of ancient oaks

And bends down over mournful waters.