Twilight, the mother of thought,
above the waves of clouds
like Halcyon settles slowly down;
tranquility of mind
like oil upon the waters
slowly spreads in rings.
She wears few jewels,
no twinkling spread of gems adorn her,
no luscious silks of fire-color,
but a simple gown
in graceful folds hangs down.
Above, a bat, with hectic wing
begins to wheel, and distance-wise
a nightbird haunts with music.
I remember the forest, the hill, the sea;
with pleasure I travel in my mind.
In summer I looked at your beautiful face,
I wrote a book about a golden flower.
The autumn rain, Sunday shower,
was like to words, clear and fair.
In the gates of the north the sky grew dark;
though I played, I came to fear.
Fire came from forth a dark wind;
in the winter it danced, in January.