I
O the splendour of our joy, woven of gold in the
silken air!
Here is our pleasant house and its airy gables,
and the garden and the orchard.
Here is the bench beneath the apple-trees, whence
the white spring is shed in slow, caressing
petals.
Here flights of luminous wood-pigeons, like
harbingers, soar in the clear sky of the
countryside.
Here, kisses fallen upon earth from the mouth of
the frail azure, are two blue ponds, simple and
pure, artlessly bordered with involuntary flowers.
O the splendour of our joy and of ourselves in
this garden where we live upon our emblems.