Near the springs that traverse
The great sheets of the prairies,
The damp rock cress flowers,
Blooming in purple, shelter the toads
Who send up their call in one sweet voice,
Never drying out under the moonlight,
Singing the same tune and lyrics.
Something looking like cloth hangs on the bushes
smelling of sweet detergent…
The trees of the gardens of May
Feel their invisible flowers
Falling upon hearing the plaintive tone
That comes from the silver meadows,
Like tears of love.
The graceful cherry tree,
The pale, tender birch,
Vaporize bright green budding foliage
And light up, until they burn out
Under the distracted kiss of the affectionate blue sky.
The flutes of purple rock cress
Sing their pure nocturne …
The lunar light slips into the brooks,
Inundates the valley as if pouring out a tall urn
And fills the soul of man
And of all nature’s creatures.