Xxviii

The moveless beauty Of the summer evenings, Upon the grass where they deploy, Gives with symbolic offerings, Gestureless, without a word, The deep repose of joy.

Morning with its surprises Has gone where no wind rises; Midday itself with folds of velvet air No longer sinks upon the torpid plain; Now is the hour when the evening once again Without a moving leaf or ripple on lake breast, Comes down from lofty hills To our garden where It seeks its rest.

Oh golden splendour of the burnished lake, And trees and shadows of them on the reeds, And tranquil sumptuous silences That take Immutably the kingdom of our hearts, So that within us now a vow we cherish Of it to live and die and live again, Like two hearts drunk almost to pain With light, Who cannot perish!