EN
At oakwood’s edge where fields and fragrance meet,
Where shimmering sun bejewels the ghostly mist,
The grasshoppers, by morning dew-drops kissed,
Seek mossy mists to shun the searing heat.
A bunting pipes a plaintive, pearly lay,
The babbling brook in shallow duet flows,
A rainbow-revel where the water glows,
For pearls of which a dreaming faerie’d pray.
In sudden surge, the world seeks leafy screen,
I climb and crave what heart alone can hold,
While pollen-powder veils the stones in gold.
Sated with shadows, in that scent-drenched scene,
An ancient root—my faithful, gnarled throne—
Would speak of spells that leave the soul alone.
