came on the distance altered, Pale wavering reflections rose from out the city, Like sighs or the beckoning of half-invisible hands. Monotonously and sluggishly they crept upwards A river that had spent itself in some chasm, And dwindled and foamed at last at my weary feet. Autumn! Golden fountains, And the winds neighing Amid the monotonous hills: Desolation of the old gods, Rain that lifts and rain that moves away; In the greenback torrent Scarlet leaves. It was now perfectly evening: And the tower loomed like a gaunt peak in mid-air Above the city: its base was utterly lost. It was slowly coming on to rain, And the immense columns of white mist Wavered and broke before the faint-hurled spears. I will descend the mountains like a shepherd, And in the folds of tumultuous misty cities, I will put all my thoughts, all my old thoughts, safely to sleep. For it is already autumn, O whiteness of the pale southwestern sky! O wavering dream that was not mine to keep! 

 In midnight, in mournful moonlight, By paths I could not trace, I walked in the white garden, Each flower had a white face. Their perfume intoxicated me: thus I began my dream. I was alone; I had no one to guide me, But the moon was like the sun: It stooped and kissed each waxen petal, One after one. Green and white was that garden: diamond rain hung in the branches, You will not believe it! In the morning, at the dayspring, I wakened, shivering; lo, The white garden that blossomed at my feet Was a garden hidden in snow. It was my sorrow to see that all this was a dream. III Blue, clogged with purple, Mists uncoil themselves: Sparkling to the horizon, I see the snow alone. In the deep blue chasm, Boats sleep under gold thatch; Icicle-like trees fret Faintly rose-touched sky. Under their heaped snow-eaves, Leaden houses shiver. Through thin blue crevasses, Trickles an icy stream. The pines groan white-laden, The waves shiver, struck by the wind; Beyond from treeless horizons, Broken snow-peaks crawl to the sea. 

 Wearily the snow glares, Through the grey silence, day after day, Mocking the colourless cloudless sky With the reflection of death. There is no smoke through the pine tops, No strong red boatmen in pale green reeds, No herons to flicker an instant, No lanterns to glow with gay ray. No sails beat up to the harbour, With creaking cordage and sailors' song. Somnolent, bare-poled, indifferent, They sleep, and the city sleeps. Mid-winter about them casts, Its dreary fortifications: Each day is a gaunt grey rock, And death is the last of them all. 

 Over the sluggish snow, Drifts now a pallid weak shower of bloom; Boredom of fresh creation, 

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