The flowers have drifted away in the low of the water along the shores
 
  The flowers? The marvellous water in which the dying evening turns golden;
  the dying petals twirl and topple
  in the current of the river, deflowered by a chill blue breeze,
  and far, far across the plains, run on to
  the edge of the world, where is born the red dawn. 
 
  The flowers have drifted away in the flow of the water along the shores
 
  The flowers? Those of fresh and fragile flax, encorollate,
  are soothed by the rolling of slow, elusive barques,
  and sadly, with sorrowful heedlessness, alight and multiply
  on the mirrored surfaces of slow-moving rivers,
  flowing, into the distance, between the pines. 
 
  The flowers on the whirling water in the flow of tree-lined streams... 
 
  O the black silence of the waters! The terror under the branches;
  glacial chill of the frozen river stripped... 
  and in the deep night of the park where whispers have died
  in the mist in which rises the pallor of a statue,
  the sadness and the nudity of the nocturnal waters. 
 
  The flowers on the whirling water in the flow of tree-lined streams...