Ah in the thunder air

    how still the trees are！

    And the lime-tree， lovely and tall，

    every leaf silent hardly looses even a last breath of perfume.

    And the ghostly， creamy coloured little tree of leaves white，

    ivory white among the rambling¹ greens how evanescent，

    variegated² elder， she hesitates on the green grass as if，

    in another moment， she would disappear with all her grace of foam³！

    And the larch⁴ that is only a column， it goes up too tall to see：

    and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of things from the sea，

    and the young copper⁵ beech⁶， its leaves red-rosy at the ends

    how still they are together， they stand so still in the thunder air，

    all strangers to one another as the green grass glows upwards⁷，

    strangers in the silent garden.