It is Spring. In the extensive garden

beautiful campanulate flowers oscillate,

courting the sun, in the sky, suspended,

gilding the wings that breathe trembling.

Here there is through the space an enclosed laughter;

beyond, musical trills — they are ballads

that the birds intone in a consensus

of harmonious tuned voices.

On top the ethereal blue; below a lake,

where the breeze playing, in a vague turn,

it puts even with, brilliant glimmer.

And I only, in a high hill, cheerful and mute,

I contemplate birds, and sky, and flowers — everything