Nobody is in the house. Autumn in rooms;

Moon-bright sonata

And the awakening at the edge of the dusking forest.

You always imagine the white countenance of man

Far from the turmoil of time;

Over a dreaming shape green branches bend with pleasure,

Cross and evening;

The sounding one is embraced with purple arms by his star,

That climbs up to uninhabited windows.

Thus the stranger trembles in darkness

As he quietly lifts his eyelids over a human shape,

That is far away; the silver voice of the wind in the hallway.