I arose, at dawn, the high mountain,

that is in front of the back of my home.

There I saw at the grottos, nests — which doesn't bathe

matinal light that so much vivifies.

In the whole space I saw, powdered,

immense opal, then, undone in snow.

I wandered alone beyond, by the scarp,

hearing to pass the wind, too slightly,

in the branches in beautiful bloom.

Great solitary and high palm tree

put down its palms sweetly,

as powerful and active sentry.

Slow appearances of fogs went down,

wandering slowly through the valleys,

as brocade in the bed of the daisies,

qthat have perfume and they have candor in the calix.

The sun was rising. The star of the dawn

was not mirrored in swamps and founts.

The birds sang happily,

spreading the happiness for the hills.

Stepping green grasses of velvet,

humming some tender songs,

I, enchanted, looked at everything, everything,

from the fulgent sun to the lowest plants.

And when the light the tops already gilded

of the palm trees, of the hills, of the churches,

in the eagerness of the work I went — entered