There are easier meadows then those I tread.
More beautiful places one may rest their head.
Blowing reeds, bent by a passing breath
Sprinkles of seeds in the graying west.
The soft, fuzzy rim of the world is setting,
The sounds of crows in the forest abetting;
I can see one robin in a dusk-edged tree
Placing an expressionless eye on me.
I must go away through the stone lined meadow
And find a place not sought by shadow.