Learn from the child to pray to the blue waves, for 'tis the sky here below whose cloud is foam. The sun's reflection sparkling on the sea is sweeter to gaze on to our gloomy eyes.
Learn from the child to pray to the pure sky, 'tis the ocean above, whose void is cloud. The gloom of a cloud rich in wrecks to our hearts is less sad to follow in the azure.
Learn from the child to pray to all things: the bee of the spirit makes a honey of light on the living aves of the rosary of roses, a chaplet of perfumes on the rosaries of love.
O lovely April, glad and bright,
What matters your blithe song,
White lilacs, hawthorns, and the flowered gold
Of sunlight streaming through the branches,
If far-away my well-beloved
In the northern fogs stays.
I had gone to the heart of the garden,
When in the night some invisible hand,
Stronger than me, struck me to earth,—
'Tis for your joy, a voice did say.
And the tiny venturous flowers along the hedges.