We broke our trip by a wooded stream.
The stand of oaks, old Anton reckoned,
Had leaves that numbered half the sum
Of life left him in twice the seconds.

At the castle gate, he seemed quite calm;
His room gave onto groves and lawns.
But then he asked us in alarm
Why stars dissolve within the dawn.

Poor soul. We closed out night, left quill
And ink in hope he might complete
His symphony. We counted on God's will,
Soon heard the marking of a beat,

Watched sheets of paper fall like leaves
To read a score of empty bars.
The notes, he cried, that fill these staves
Must number heaven’s countless stars!