It is Spring. In the extensive garden,

beautiful campaniform flowers oscillate,

courting the sun, in the sky, suspended,

gilding the wings that trembling breathe.

Here, there is, through the space, a appended laughter;

beyond, musical trills — they are ballads

that the birds intone in a consensus

of harmonious tuned voices.

Above the ethereal blue; below a lake,

where the breeze, playing, in a vague turn,

puts, in the surface, brilliant glimmer.

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

I contemplate birds, and sky, and flowers — everything