The Northeaster blows,
Among all the winds the one
I love the best, because it portends
A fiery spirit [and]1 a good journey [to sailors]1.
But now I go [and]1 greet
The beautiful Garonne,
And the gardens of Bordeaux
There, where upon the steep bank
The path leads, and the brook falls far down
Into the river, but from above,
A noble pair of oaks and
Silvery poplars gaze on [this scene].
 
[I still think of this fondly, and of how
The forest of elms inclines
Its broad tree-tops over the mill,
In the yard, however, a fig tree grows.]1
On the feast days
The brown women walk there
Upon the silky earth,
In March,
When [night and day]2 are equal,
And over slow pathways,
Heavy with golden dreams,
Lulling breezes pass.
 
[But may someone hand me,
Full of the dark light,
One of the scented goblets,
That I may rest, for though sweet would be
Slumber beneath the shadows,
It is not good
To be soulless of mortal
Thoughts. But a conversation
Is good and to speak
The heart’s meaning, to hear much
Of the days of love,
And of deeds that took place.
 
But where are my friends? Bellarmin
With his companions? Many a one
Is burdened with dread to approach the well-spring;
Riches, namely, begin
In the ocean. They,
Like painters, gather together
What is beautiful upon earth and do not
Disdain the winged war, and do not disdain
To live solitary for years under
The leafless mast, where the night is not made sparkling
By the feast-days of the city,
And by the music of strings and by native dances.
 
But now to the Indies
The men have gone;
There upon the breezy peak
Along vine-clad mountains, where downward
The Dordogne approaches
And together with the splendid
Garonne, the combined waters
Flow out wide as the sea. But the ocean
Takes and gives memory,
And love, too, assiduously captures one’s eyes,
What remains, however, the poets provide.]1