The golden barks of lovely summer that set out,
riotous for space, are returning sad and weary
from the blood-stained horizons.
With monotonous strokes of the oars, they advance
upon the waters; they are as cradles in which
sleep autumn flowers.
Stalks of lilies with golden brows, you all lie
overthrown; alone, the roses struggle to live
beyond death.
What matters to their full beauty that October
shine or April: their simple and puerile desire
drinks all light until the blood comes.
Even on the blackest days, when the sky dies,
they strive towards Christmas, beneath a harsh
and haggard cloud, the moment the first ray darts
through.
You, our souls, do as they; they have not the
pride of the lilies; but within their folds they
guard a holy and immortal ardour.