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