The crane cries low on the brink of the bog,
The heron mounts from mists of the pool,
The time for the owl to see draws near,
The time for the bat to flit in the cool.

The stars grow ripe for the moon to reap.
The hour of the moth is the hour of thought.
Why is a leaf that lifts, and is still,
With a sense of infinite sadness fraught?