Rockets drizzle in the yellow sunshine;
What a mask-like throng in the old park.
Landscapes are mirrored in the gray sky
And sometimes one hears the faun scream dreadfully.
Its golden grin appears garishly in the grove.
In cresses the bumblebees’ thick of battle clamors,
A rider trots past on a sallow white horse.
The poplars glow in vague rows.
The little girl who drowned in the pond today
Rests as a saint in the bleak room
And a glimmer of clouds often blinds her.
The old people go into the hothouse dully and ill
And water their flowers which wither.
At the gate voices whisper dream-confused.