The clock-cricket singing,
that's the fever rustling.
The dry stove hissing,
that's the fire in red silk.

The teeth of mice milling
the thin supports of life,
that's the swallow my daughter
who unmoored my boat.

Rain-mumble on the roof—
that's the fire in black silk.
But even at the bottom of the sea
the bird-cherry will hear ‘good-bye'.

For death is innocent,
and the heart,
all through the nightingale-fever,
however it turns, is still warm.