Where one goes in the evening is not the angel's shadow

And beauty! grief and gentler forgetting alternate;

The stranger's hands grope coolness and cypresses

And his soul is taken by an astonished languishing.

The market is emptied of red fruits and garlands.

Harmoniously the church's blackish pageantry attunes

In a garden the tones of soft play sound,

Where tired ones find each other after the meal.

A carriage rushes, a spring very far away through green puddles.

There a childhood appears dreamlike and elapsed,

Angela's stars, enclosed devoutly to a mystical constellation,

And calmly the evening coolness rounds.

White poppy loosens the limbs of the lonely ponderer,

So that he views righteousness and God's deep joy.

From the garden his shadow strays here in white silk

And bends down over mournful waters.

Branches knocked whispering into the abandoned room

And a loving and small evening flowers' tremor.

Corn and golden vines gird the site of man,

A lunar shimmer, however, ponders after the dead.