Edith Södergran: The September Lyre

The night comes great with its flossy beard

and smiles broadly to all the halfway veiled.

Colossal and shapeless all the shapes of the park grow out

of the silent lilacs in the dusk.

The pretty lilacs have sleepy ears,

they dream that the sun descends to Earth…

What can a dreamdusk do against all the waken thoughts

which unseen sneak past…