It was June in the garden, our hour and our day,
and our eyes looked upon all things with so
great a love that the roses seemed to us to open
gently, and to see and love us.
The sky was purer than it had ever been: the
insects and birds floated in the gold and
gladness of an air as frail as silk, and our
kisses were so exquisite that they gave an added
beauty to the sunshine and the birds.
It was as though our happiness had suddenly
become azure, and required the whole sky wherein
to shine; through gentle openings, all life
entered our being, to expand it.
And we were nothing but invocatory cries, and
wild raptures, and vows and entreaties, and the
need, suddenly, to recreate the gods, in order to
believe.