Such is the wood-pigeon’s song when the shower approaches—the air is powdered with rain, with ghostly sunlight—
I awake washed, I melt as I rise, I gather the tender sky.
Lying beside you, I move your liberty.
I am a block of earth reclaiming its flower.
Is there a carved throat more radiant than yours? To ask is to die!
The wing of your sigh spreads a film of down on the leaves. The arrow of my love closes your fruit, drinks it.
I am in the grace of your countenance which my darkness covers with joy.
How beautiful your cry that gives me your silence!
[WSM]