Against the pale-blue enamel
that April makes conceivable,
the branches of the birch-trees stand
and gradually turn into evening.
Their pattern is sharp and complete,
the stiffened gauze is fine,
like a drawing that someone has neatly
traced out on a plate of china.
Some merciful artist has performed
that design on the glassy heavens,
knowing the transience of such force,
oblivious to the sorrow of death.