Not a whisper of wind in the pines,

Not a cry from a bird;

The stillness is stirred

By no fluttering feather of snow.

From the blackening seed-pods the down,

Nor living nor dead,

Is hung by a thread

While it waits for the severing blow

Not a cloud in the sullen sky,

No warmth in the air,

But a chill, blank stare

From the colourless eye of the sun.

From the jungle of yellowing grass

A grasshopper crawls

On to a stone, and falls

Silent, unmoving as one

Passing to death in a dream

At the end of a world:

His red wings are furled

For ever, his singing is done.