Under the trimmed willows, where brown children are playing

And leaves tumbling, the trumpets blow. A quaking of cemeteries.

Banners of scarlet rattle through a sadness of maple trees,

Riders along rye-fields, empty mills.

Or shepherds sing during the night, and stags step delicately

Into the circle of their fire, the grove’s sorrow immensely old,

Dancing, they loom up from one black wall;

Banners of scarlet, laughter, insanity, trumpets.