What can I tell you that you don’t know
That will make you tremble again?

By the roadside, by
Wet rocks, on the embankments
Underplanted with hyacinth

For ten years I was happy.
You were there; in a sence,
You were always with me, the house, the garden
Constrantly lit,
Not with lights as we have in the sky
But with those emblems of light
Which are more powerful, being
Implicitly some earthly
Thing transformed

And all of it vanished,
Reabsorbed into impassive process. Then
What will we see by,
Now that the yellow torches have become
Green branches?

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