In the sky there are lusters, there are gilded clouds,

done of that golden powder that the sun produces.

Lights in the hill, in the distance, high up.

The dawn reigns, dominating the light.

The lymph, hurried, in its slope,

coiling for among the rocks,

it comes to take part in that good conviviality,

full of light and full of harmony.

There are shines in the holms, rays in the grasslands,

waltzing, cheerful, over the vegetables.

Lights transposing hills and ditch-and-hedges,

giving splendor to the micas and the crystals.

The sun is the life — the lights are the lives

of those beautiful tiny flowers. What flourishes!

Smiling, chaste, colored flowers,

they raise the light, that is the life in pretty breasts.

Lakes shine resplendently and fountains sparkle,

twinkling even with the waters.

They reflect thousand rays, they reflect hills,

where the micas show splendor.

Chords of epopees sound: — threnodes,

in interlaces of sounds, they wander, dispersed.

There are sonorous notes, suave trills,

limpid chirps, clear warbles.

Arias, odes, cavatinas fly to the air,

cutting that fluidic, blue amplitude.

The more lustrous butterflies dance

in choreography festival, showy.

The nature is now in pomps.

The birds sing at the forest in flowers —

flowers that always serve to excite them,

the fullest expansion of their loves.

The nature now is festive,

in a magisterial solemnity,

and now to my glance it manifests itself,