Blackish the step follows the gleaming moon

In the autumnal garden,

The immense night sinks by the freezing wall.

O, the thorny hour of grief.

Silverly the candlestick of the lonely one flickers in the dusking room,

Dying away, when that one thinks a darkness

And bends the stony head over the perishable,

Drunk from wine and nightly harmonies.

The ear always follows

The soft lament of the blackbird in the hazel bushes.

Dark rosary hour. Who are you

Lonesome flute,

Forehead, bent over sinister times freezing.