A silence slipping around like death,

Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;

One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,

Inking their cress 'gainst a sky green-gold;

One path that knows where the corn flowers were;

Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;

And over it softly leaning down,

One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.