We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.

 

Already now the white is spent
of field chickweed, and the froth
that shaped the violet larva tent
decays around the silent moth.
Dandelion snuffed its lamp,
corydalis seeded there,
nettle walked the hillside ramp,
swallow flights trace the air:
—Pale as on silk they write—
laud the ideal and take flight!
Suffer renewal and hurry
from the mere semblance to sense.
Fear not the busy worry
of cricket rasp. I abide
still over the grave of Osiris
but you are already hence
when with the swords of iris
spring’s passing pierces your side.
Ours the fragile silk weave
of earthly span. Take your leave!

Translation by Charlotte Melin