Constant transformation of this transit living
Will remain my solace in this day and age –
Early morning sunshine, smoke over the village,
And the red park slowly parting with its foliage,
You, my old and shabby, long familiar bench.

For the future poets, to me unbeknownst,
God will leave a secret, a memory of me:
I’ll become their dreaming, bodiless, outmost,
Wondrous, incorruptible, transcendental ghost,
In this park with red leaves, in this calm and peace.