Like a braziers bronze cinders,
the sleepy gardens beetles flowing.
Level with me, and my candle,
a flowering world is hanging.
As if into unprecedented faith,
I cross into this night,
where the poplars beaten grey
veils the moons rim from sight.
Where the ponds an open secret,
where apple-trees whisper of waves,
where the garden hanging on piles,
holds the sky before its face.
