Oh, when you come in a step to the nobility,

in tender cadenced oscillation,

to see arriving, I suppose in fantasy,

fantastic and adored beautiful vision ...

Your limpid glances are of Venus,

festive, resplendent and white star;

they sparkle rutilant, serene...

Their light I always want to see it.

You approximate of me... And I became crazy!...

And when you see me, then it is when

you sadden and you go little by little

for you to avoid me the view retreating...

And that metamorphoses are operated

in those glances that were smiling!

They are not fun anymore and they degenerate,

in glances of doves that see people...

I try to aim at them, but, gracious, disdainful,

as mirages, they go back

soon; and in oblique sense, clear, alive,

they flee gushing light and hiding...

And without seeing your glance that mine pursues,

now without smiling, in serious I meditate,

trying to discover — But without being able to! —