The drowsy garden scatters insects

Bronze as the ash from braziers blown.

Level with me and with my candle,

Hang flowering worlds, their leaves full-grown.

As into some unheard-of dogma

I move across into this night,

Where a worn poplar age has grizzled

Screens the moon’s strip of fallow light,

Where the pond lies, an open secret,

Where apple-bloom is surf and sigh,

And where the garden, a lake-dwelling,

Holds out in front of it the sky.