The dark figures of politics hover in the air

Like dark birds,

The new trees flutter in the backyards of New York

And the boy stretches to his mother.

I hear a chirping of birds on Twelfth Street,

In the backyard, and soon I shall dive

Into the waterfalls of concrete,

Where the tiny bells of China are heard in the sunlight.

The tiny bells of China ring to call to solitude

And contemplation, in a tiny mountain house

By green leaves, and through the bells I hear the traffic

Which at furst seems the noise of the Hundred Years’ War.