I was little boy, I was child

and child Paulina was also.

We ran the fields — What alliance! —

springs picking in Spring.

She restless, swift, followed

by the lane of the long highway along;

and distant of me, beyond, ran,

smiling to the awakening of the flavescent dawn.

And there in the fields, her hands went

pulling the delicate, fine branches,

picking the fresh flowers that smiled

on the grass adorned of relief embroidery.

Having the flowers in her own handkerchief

«Oh take! Oh take!» happy she said to me;

and hearing her the sound and sweet voice

in the blue sky of the enchantment I smiled her.

We returned happy in leisure

we — two, tender, talkative, children;

both of us in whose breast was, quiet,

a group of illusions and of hopes.

I sometimes compared to the carmine

the reddish color of her faces, pretty woman;

other times, in the middle of the prairie,

I compared to the lily her breast.

Her lips I compared to the rose,

to the most beautiful purpurin rose;

and to the covered and perfumed hair,

the night that my soul now looks at.

But what comparisons! Ah, that madness!

To the flowers of the gardens, so maculate

I compare her immaculate and pure

as the limpid golden stars.

Then the most beautiful and smelling flowers

they conserve and your breast, secretly,

noxious filters, disgusting flies,

carnivorous insects, everything indecent.

The night the vile criminal cloaks —

the night is darkness, and the darkness kisses the abyss;

the night leans over the vortex

and it never shines and uses to be maleficent.

And she in the glance was a bright stars,

she was a lily in the color and in the purity;

in the lips it was the rose; and she had, the pretty woman,

in the long hair, of the night, the tenebrous blackness.

The darkness, however, she just had

of the dark night in her dark hair;

the everything more was hers, of her it came:

the light of her glance, of the breast the aroma.

She was always chaste, always pure —

the mouth, the neck, the laughter was unpolluted,

she never had in the breast the misfortune:

to everything that was bad she had a redoubt.

Day, however, it arrived in that invaded

by an atrocious, deep, immense pain,

she withered, poor!, in anguishes abated

and she went to the area of the indifference.

Today, when I see high and serene,

shining, bright scintillant star,

and in the garden the white lily

and in a bush an warbling bird,

of the assimilations I remember now,

that I did at her side; in anxiety

It came to me the weeping in flow eyes out,