In the garden of our love, summer still goes
on: yonder, a golden peacock crosses an avenue;
petals--pearls, emeralds, turquoises --deck the
uniform slumber of the green swards.
Our blue ponds shimmer, covered with the
white kiss of the snowy water-lilies; in the
quincunxes, our currant bushes follow one another
in procession; an iridescent insect teases the
heart of a flower; the marvellous undergrowths
are veined with gleams; and, like light bubbles,
a thousand bees quiver along the arbours over the
silver grapes.
The air is so lovely that it seems rainbow-hued;
beneath the deep and radiant noons, it stirs
as if it were roses of light; while, in the
distance, the customary roads, like slow
movements stretching their vermilion to the
pearly horizon, climb towards the sun.
Indeed, the diamonded gown of this fine
summer clothes no other garden with so pure a
brightness. And the unique joy sprung up in
our two hearts discovers its own life in these
clusters of flames.