As if chiseled, a fruit-laden branch Hangs in my garden, asleep - so low... The trees sleep - and dream? - in moonlight; And the mystery of their life is near, near... Even if we cannot grasp it, The mute language is still intelligible: They use our beauty to express How we are one amidst rays and spots of light. And the tremor of any life's creation Reveals itself in a lovely form; And the variance of different things is sweetened By shared beauty. Multiply it! And the world will be like this unstirring garden, Where everything heeds a harmonious silence: Both stem and flower yield to the dear Earth; Both flower and stem listen to the Moon.