The garden scatters burnt-up beetles

The garden scatters burnt-up beetles Like brazen ash, from braziers burst.

I witness, by my lighted candle,

A newly blossomed universe.

And like a not yet known religion I enter this unheard of night,

In which the shabbily-grey poplar Has curtained off the lunar light.

The pond is a presented secret.

Oh, whispers of the appletree!

The garden hangs-a pile construction,

And holds the sky in front of me.