At evening the complaint of the cuckoo

Grows still in the wood.

The grain bends its head deeper,

The red poppy.

Darkening thunder drives

Over the hill.

The old song of the cricket

Dies in the field.

The leaves of the chestnut tree

Stir no more.

Your clothes rustle

On the winding stair.

The candle gleams silently

In the dark room;

A silver hand

Puts the light out;

Windless, starless night.