Some year, the boys, who today are hidden, will come to tell you the sweet pain of loving, and they will hear you all, around the maypole, sing songs of childhood to greet the night. (Tr. 54) Fish, crane, eagle, flower, bird-bent bamboo. Turtle, iris, peony, anemone, sparrows. (Tr. 55) I wish that this verse were a bauble of art, (Tr. 56) 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. (Tr. 57) 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. (Tr. 58) 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. (Tr. 59) And the tiny venturous flowers along the hedges. (Tr. 60) Behold the rapture of autumnal souls, The town dissolves like near illusions; Behold the portals of the moonless night Veiled in violet and orange-hues. Princess, what did'st thou with the jeweled tiara. (Tr. 61) O Jesus crowned with thorns, bleeding in every bruised heart. (Tr. 62) Gooday mynher, gooday myffrau. (Tr. 63) The hour of white cloud is cast o'er the plain, Like reflections of blood, or flocks of wool, O rose-colored sweet-heather, O blood-colored sky. The hour of gold cloud has paled o'er the plain, The long slow veils of white wool fall, O mauve-colored sweet-heather--O blood-colored sky. The hour of gold cloud has burst o'er the plain, Gently the reeds sang under angered winds, O red sweet-heather--O blood-colored sky. The hour of gold cloud has passed o'er the plain So swiftly: its splendor has vanished. O gold sweet-heather--O blood-colored sky. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Masks, by Remy de Gourmont