In the midst of things

To the secret of my verses where nature rhymes,

To the concert of birds, to the perfume of lilacs,

To the satiny clumps that sing their finery,

Pilgrim, I appreciate their pleasant correlates.

A light wind flees from downstream to upstream,

Like a crowning glory of magnificence,

Where the green is light, spreads at the foot of a mountain,

In a symphony of charm and elegance.

A bluish lace of fir trees envelops

The horizon where the ground and the nakedness are married,

Release the steam, tenuous, and which stumbles

In the hollow of the valley and its wooded bower.

In the nascent heat where the day dazzles,

I measure the extent of this fragile empire;

The innumerable murmur is a velvet noise

In the shivering of the bower that a poem sigh.