Once more following the blue grief of the evening

Down the hill, to the springtime fishpond—

As if the shadows of those dead for a long time were hovering above,

The shadows of church dignitaries, of noble ladies—

Their flowers bloom so soon, the earnest violets

In the earth at evening, and the clear water washes

From the blue spring. The oaks turn green

In such a ghostly way over the forgotten footsteps of the dead

The golden clouds over the fishpond.