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Etude d'automne près d'Oberau, 1908

A path of chalk leads down into the mass
Of frail trees. About its curvature, exhausted

Grass lies in pastel green and marigold,
Bleached out of all verdance through days

Of full summer light. A smell rises from it,
Like the stale breath of a horse. Voices sound :

How should we know our death when it comes?
Our bodies falter! Tell then how we should

Know, when he draws our lightnesses from us,
That all has been vouchsafed to his command?

The bodies of the trees are crooked, and white
As ribs. Fires hang, motionless in their force,

At the heavy crowns. Their only expression lies
In the subtle tendance of a momentary draught,

Or in the earth and its soft rumour. Down the
Hillside, a chimney unfolds a stream of smoke.

Mountains fade in the azure, fallen edifices.
They are traced with rivulets like fine veins.

Listen, my hoarse children : the music here is
Of a fast colour, not of your dullish cacophony.