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Poem	What can I tell you that you don't know that will make you tremble again? Forsythia by the roadside, by wet rocks, on the embankments underplanted with hyacinth -- For ten years I was happy. You were there; in a sence, you were always with me, the house, the garden constrantly lit, not with lights as we have in the sky but with those emblems of light which are more powerful, being implicitly some earthly thing transformed -- And all of it vanished, reabsorbed into impassive process. Then what will we see by, now that the yellow torches have become green branches?
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