These two by the stone wall

Are a slight part of death.

The grass is still green.

But there is a total death,

A devastation, a death of great height

And depth, covering all surfaces,

Filling the mind.

These are the small townsmen of death,

A man and a woman, like two leaves

That keep clinging to a tree,

Before winter freezes and grows black—

Of great height and depth

Without any feeling, an imperium of quiet,

In which a wasted figure, with an instrument,

Propounds blank final music