It is Sunday; a day bright with sunlight
Shimmers smilingly over field and hedge,
Heaven and earth, in peaceful rest,
Exchange greeting and thanks.

You mountain ranges, grave and august,
You meadows, so silent and deserted,
And you forest, so full of devoutness, 
You all know that it is the day of the Lord.

Far from the confines of my small cottage
I, gently shaded, rest under a tree
That raises its column’s crown
Like a cathedral into the ethereal blue.

Through its canopy, greenly garlanded
By the tangle of leaves, a portion of sky shines,
Infinitely deep and blue and bright,
Like an eye in the face of God.

Everything abides in its adornment, no breeze blows,
Everything falls silent, readying itself for prayer –
Only the dreamy hum of the bees
Still trembles on in the great sanctuary.