Through the open window can be seen
The poplars at the end of the garden
Shaking in the wind,
A wall of green leaves so high
That the sky is shut off.

On the white table cloth
A rose in a vase—
Centre of a sphere of odour—
Contemplates the crumbs and crusts
Left from a meal:
Cups, saucers, plates lie
Here and there.

And a sparrow flies by the open window,
Stops for a moment,
Flutters his wings rapidly,
And climbs an aerial ladder
With his claws
That work close in
To his soft, brown-grey belly.

But behind the table is the face of a man.

The bird flies off.
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