In midst of waves, there are the silver beads
And scraped by time paints of the white enamel …
I so like the morns which autumn breeds,
For their caress, so short and so gentle.
And I do like the foam on the shore,
When it again is whitening in mire,
And, greedy, I am hiding here a store
Of hazy days, while skies are full of fire.
But somewhere there, they’re roaming in flame,
The same ones as I am, without name and number,
And somebody’s young being – just the same –
Instead of me, is ceasing in sad amber.