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.