-like A Brazier-s Bronze Cinders,-

Like a brazier-s bronze cinders,
the sleepy garden-s beetles flowing.
Level with me, and my candle,
a flowering world is hanging.

As if into unprecedented faith,
I cross into this night,
where the poplar-s beaten grey
veils the moon-s rim from sight.

Where the pond-s an open secret,
where apple-trees whisper of waves,
where the garden hanging on piles,
holds the sky before its face.