For the last time, with leaves that flow

between the fingers of the air

and pass before the thunderstorm

from green by now importunate

into a simple silverness,

it ripples, the poor olive: foliage

of art! And it would seem that words

were now no longer worth the fondling,

had there not been a vagabond’s

sharp-sightedness and approbation,

had not the gully held its lily,

had not the thunderstorm drawn near.