Above the still moon of a mirror,
I praise a fraternal circle
Of green pines, red with old gold,
Transfiguration of the king of day.

Tender silver, starved of reflection,
Dies now. From the glass - cold plate -
Speaks the voice of agonized moisture:
- Sun has gilded my tongue, why complain?

The gates of its setting, now closed,
Shroud the fields in mourning. Black curs
Growl, at who knows what, concealed.

Dreams decapitated, wearied,
Over the high tomb of the hills,
The stars of the valley wither.