O how the wind brushed through the gardens
so their leaf-dresses whispered when the quinces
covered with down bodied forth so ripe and full
while in the lindens nearby a silvered wind
swelled then fell into the aisles of cherries
whose leaves were already hanging limp or shivering
with the gusts, until witheringly they seemed again
what was - a rustling in the branches and a yielding
in the grass, as if it were us, as if this flowing and
resting were sinking within us and silver still and
inclined towards everything.

Translated by Don Paterson