The drowsy garden scatters insects
Bronze as the ash from braziers blown.
Level with me and with my candle,
Hang flowering worlds, their leaves full-grown.
As into some unheard-of dogma
I move across into this night,
Where a worn poplar age has grizzled
Screens the moon’s strip of fallow light,
Where the pond lies, an open secret,
Where apple bloom is surf and sigh,
And where the garden, a lake dwelling,
Holds out in front of it the sky.