Under the Elm in the parched field,

in the base hidden under leaf and grass,

the moon should shine, should beam.

But the foliage gathers en masse.

And when the stone is heaved across

the infinitesimal space between,

the path will be cleared

for the moonlight to be seen.

In that spot, under the elm,

when the year dies away again,

under thicket and snow once more,

where it falls will be heaven.