Sometimes you wear the kindly grace of the garden
in early morning that, quiet and winding, unfolds
in the blue distances its pleasant paths, curved
like the necks of swans.
And, at other times, you are for me the bright
thrill of the swift, exalting wind that passes
with its lightning fingers through the watery
mane of the white pond.
At the good touch of your two hands, I feel as
though leaves were caressing me lightly; and,
when midday burns the garden, the shadows at once
gather up the dear words with which your being
trembled.
Thus, thanks to you, each moment seems to pass in
me divinely; so, at the hour of wan night, when
you hide within yourself, shutting your eyes, you
feel my gentle, devout gaze, humbler and longer
than a prayer, thank yours beneath your closed
eyelids.