A mirror hangs on the wall of the draughty cupola. 
Within the depths of glass mix the oak and the beech 

leaf, 
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 
reflection. 

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.