My pleasant work by open windows wide,
With shadow of green leafage from out-side
And path of the sun's light
Across my paper white,
Maintains a gentle violence,
A sense
Of silence in our kindly, pensive house.
Vividly the flowers lean,
And glowing fruits among the boughs are seen,
Birds on boughs and birds upon the wing
Chant and sing
In order that my verse may ring
Clear and new, pure and trues
As song of birds,
And gold of fruits and petals blossoming.
Down in the garden there I see you pass,
Over the sunny and the shady grass;
But you do not look at me,
Lest you trouble my tranquillity,
As here with jealous heart I fashion
Poems of a frank and tender passion.
X
All faith lies at the bottom of our love,
Joining an ardent thought to everything:
The faint awakening blossom, or above
Downward the drift of petals from a rose;
The flight of bird on dark or sun-lit wing;
A nest half-falling from a roof that knows
Much of the wind's harsh manner--here is scope--
And in the flowery heart where insects cling,
For fear, and all of hope.
What matters it if reason with its snows
Falls chilling on such poignant ecstasy?
Let us accept it with a mind that knows
No false, no true, no evil and no good
That it may hold prophetically;
Let us be happy with our childish eyes,
Be it an evil or triumphant power;
And let us hide from men who are too wise.