A mirror hangs on the wall of the draughty cupola.
Within the depths of glass mix the oak and the beech
Once held to the boughs' shape, but now to the shape
of the wind.
Someone has hung the mirror here for no reason,
In the shuttered room, an eye for the drifted leaves,
For the oak leaf, the beech, a handsbreadth of darkest
Someone has thought alike of the bough and the wind
And struck their shape to the wall. Each in its season
Spills negligent death throughout the abandoned chamber.