Always the white night leans on the hill,

Where the poplar towers in silver tones,

Stars and stones are.

Asleep, the footbridge arches over the flooding brook,

A deceased countenance follows the boy,

Sickle moon in the rosy ravine

The eulogizing shepherds far away. In old rocks

The toad gazes out of crystalline eyes,

The blooming wind awakens, the birdcall of the deathlike man,

And the footsteps quietly turn green in the forest.

This reminds of tree and animal. Slow stages of moss;

And the moon,

That sinks glowing in sad waters.

The other one returns again and walks on the green shore,

Swings in a black gondola through the decayed city.