There is nothing like expectation,
weeks of spring floods, budding time,
the daylight of May doesn't diffuse
like that of a brightening April.
Walk down the last slippery path,
the forest gives its damp freshness
and its deep whistling.
I would trade summer's sensuous pleasure
for the first blades of grass that shine
in a dusky pine hollow,
and the first trill of the nightingale.

Nothing is like longing time,
years of waiting, engagement time.
No spring spreads a shimmer
like a secret heart's love.
Rare meetings and certain partings,
to dream of all that is sweet and dangerous
life carries in its womb!
Others may seek the gilded fruit of autumn;
I will wait and go without,
in my paradise I will keep vigil,
while the trees bud there.